


Prince Arthur and the Quest for the Holy Grail

by Soledad



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Mythology, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthurian Legends reinstated, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-04-30 20:19:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 159,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14504712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: Post Season 3 AU, combining the TV series and the Arthurian legends. Camelot is devastated after Morgana's reign, and only one thing can heal the wounds of the realm: a mythical item known as the Grail. But will Arthur be able to find it? Book One now complete. Beta read by the wild iris, whom I owe my gratitude. All remaining mistakes are mine.





	1. The Needs of Camelot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Percival’s background is based on Wolfram von Eschenbach’s “Parzival”, including the intermezzo with the Haughty Knight and his wife. The Lady Itonje is called “Jeschute” by Wolfram, but that’s such a bizarre name that I replaced it with a randomly chosen female name from the same source.
> 
> Lord Lagres was originally called Lord Lac, but I renamed him to avoid the confusion that would have been caused by too many similar-sounding names.
> 
> Blacksmiths were indeed highly respected people in the Middle Ages; in the early times, they were even considered sorcerers, due to their craft.
> 
> Tintagel Castle was originally the place where Uther seduced Ygraine, magically taking on the shape of her husband. Since the show used different character dynamics, I simply borrowed the name and gave it to the old castle in which the Round Table stood.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 01 – THE NEEDS OF CAMELOT**

The realm that Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot, had to rule in his father’s stead – while King Uther was slowly recovering from the time spent in his own dungeons during Morgana’s reign – was in a shambles. Camelot itself had been seriously damaged by Morgana’s uncontrolled outlash of grief, and her immortal army had all but levelled the villages around the castle. The roads between Camelot and Cenred’s ream had been raided by footpads (often poor farmers who had lost everything), and the forests had been all but stripped of all game, as there was very little else that people could have eaten.

The fact that Cenred had been slain and his entire army had vanished when Merlin had broken the immortality spell by knocking over the Cup of Life did _not_ help. It only meant that now Cenred’s lands were lordless and in upheaval – ripe for the taking by any of their land-hungry neighbours, from Bayard of Mercia to Kings Alined, Odin or Olaf. Even bandits like Hengist or any power-hungry knight or younger prince looking for a throne to usurp could easily conquer the all-but-empty lands, establishing a strong and possible hostile reign right in the neighbourhood.

“Strategically, this would be the right time to conquer Cenred’s lands and add them to the realm of Camelot,” said Sir Leon thoughtfully during the daily morning audience with the Crown Prince. “Except…”

“Except that we don’t have the means to do so,” Arthur finished for him. “All but a handful of our knights have been slain, and of those whom we still have, my father would never accept the best ones.”

“I’m afraid you’re right about that, sire,” Geoffrey de Monmouth, aside from Gaius the only one of Uther’s advisors who had survived Morgana’s reign of terror, said darkly. “King Uther would never agree to break the First Code of Camelot and accept any knight of common birth, no matter how much we needed them. Once he has recovered, some of your most valiant knights will be expelled.”

“I wish I could change his mind,” Arthur sighed. “But he’s a stubborn man, and all that’s happened lately – especially with Morgana – hit him hard. He won’t be in an agreeable mood for a long time yet to come.”

His recently-knighted champions – Lancelot, Gwaine, Percival and Elyan – exchanged looks of understanding. It was Elyan who spoke up eventually.

“We know that, sire,” he said, “and we do not blame _you_ for it. I still stand by what I said in the ancient Castle of Tintagel: even though I was a commoner, a nobody, you were willing to lay down your life for me, and for that you’ll have my loyalty, as long as I can still draw breath.”

“You weren’t exactly a nobody,” Gaius corrected gently. “You were – you still _are_ – a blacksmith; one who can make swords from stone, using fire and water to transform raw ore into molten metal and molten metal into shining swords in your forge. That is no small feat; blacksmiths were considered the wielders of powerful magic in ancient times.”

Elyan looked at him with a concerned frown. “I do not use magic, Master Gaius; and neither did my father, whatever King Uther might have accused him of. All we ever had were our knowledge and skills.”

“Skills that might seem like magic in the eyes of the ignorant,” pointed out Gaius. “I was _not_ accusing you of anything. I just wanted to remind you that you don’t have to be ashamed of what you are.”

“I am not,” Elyan shrugged. “However, I know King Uther will see it differently. He would never accept _me_ as a knight of Camelot. But that’s all right. My time will come; and until then, I’ll be content to remain the blacksmith and support Arthur any way I can.”

“So will we all,” Percival added.

“Speaking of which,” Arthur turned to him, “I think we’re all eager to learn a bit more about _you_ , Sir Percival. All we know is that you’re a friend of Lancelot, which is enough to know you to be trustworthy. Nonetheless, we’d all wish to hear more about your origins… Master Geoffrey above all else, I think,” he added with a smile in the direction of the court genealogist.

“So I would,” Geoffrey agreed placidly.

“There’s not much to tell,” replied Percival with a shrug. “I used to live with my widowed mother in the Gaste Forest all my youth…”

“The Gaste Forest?” repeated Arthur, looking at Geoffrey askance.

“Also known as the Desolate Forest,” explained the court genealogist helpfully; family trees weren’t the only thing he knew a great deal about. “It lies in King Alined’s realm and is not a pleasant place, I’m told.”

“Oh, it wasn’t _that_ bad,” Percival answered dismissively, “although my mother seemed to hate it. But once I’ve grown good at hunting, we always had enough to eat. And footpads seldom dared to bother us.” 

Looking at the new knight’s enormous arms that could have put ancient tree trunks to shame, Merlin could easily believe _that_.

“But what happened to your father?” asked Sir Leon. “Who _was_ your father to begin with?”

“His name was Gahmuret,” Percival shrugged. “I don’t really know that much about him. I was but a babe on arms when he died; mother never told me how.”

“Gahmuret?” the court genealogist repeated in shock. “You mean _Sir_ Gahmuret the _Angevin_? The one who married Princess Herzeloyde of Munsalvasche?”

Percival stared at the bearded old man in open-mouthed bewilderment.

“Well, the name of my mother _is_ Herzeloyde,” he admitted,” but this is the first time I hear about her being a princess.”

Arthur, too, looked at Master Geoffrey in surprise. “You knew Sir Percival’s father, then?”

The old man shook his head. “Only by reputation. It’s said that Sir Gahmuret was the finest knight in all the isles of the sea. He fought glorious battles for King Alined with his elder sons at his side, both of whom were valiant knights. Alas, they both died in combat. Legend says that as the eldest lay dead, the crows and the ravens picked out his eyes. Seeing this, Gahmuret died of grief, and his wife took their only remaining child, a boy barely a year old, to live in the forest. She hoped to shield him from knighthood that way.”

 _Seems she went all those lengths in vain_ , Merlin thought, amused by the strange story. Of all of Arthur’s newly-dubbed knights, Percival was the last he would have taken for the son of a famous knight and a princess. The young man was strong as an ox and good-natured, but always seemed a bit slow-witted. Perhaps he was just unused to people, though, having spent most of his life in the wilderness.

“And she never told you any of this?” Sir Leon asked, baffled.

Percival shook his head, hesitating between anger and regret. “She never told me _anything_. I didn’t even know that I used to have brothers, until now! She raised me like a simpleton; perhaps she hoped no-one would take me seriously if I remained ignorant.”

“How did you end up in the company of Lancelot, then?” asked Merlin, for this was what had interested him from the very moment Lancelot and Percival had miraculously appeared to save their lives from Cenred’s men.

“I was out hunting with javelins when I heard a group of five knights riding through the forest,” explained Percival. “At first I thought such noise must have been caused by a horde of evil demons; then, when I saw the knights in their glittering armour, I mistook them for faery kings. I decided that I wanted to become like them and left my mother, following their track.”

“Your mother was probably devastated.” Merlin could not help but feel sorry for the princess who had taken voluntarily exile upon herself, just to lose her only remaining son to the very thing she had wanted to protect him from at all costs.

“She cried and begged me not to go,” Percival admitted, a little ashamed. “But when I insisted on going, she even helped me to get dressed and gave me good advice how to behave in the outside world.”

“Only he foolishly misunderstood his mother’s advice on women,” Lancelot added, grinning. “When he came across a lady in a tent, he forced her to kiss him, took a ring from her finger, wolfed down her venison pies and drank her wine, before leaving her in a state of great distress.”

“Oh no, you didn’t!” Gwen cried out in exasperation, while the knights, including Arthur, were laughing uproariously.

“Oh yes, he did!” Lancelot assured them, still grinning from ear to ear, while Percival became beet red with embarrassment. “I came across them – I mean the lady and her lover, Sir Orilus, who is, by the way, the Duke of Lalande – some time later. The lady was dishevelled and half-undressed, and Sir Orilus refused to believe that she had been kissed against her will. Then he swore to kill Percival and set off, dragging the poor lady behind him.”

“That was not very gallant of him,” Sir Leon commented with a frown. “What did _you_ do then?”

“I wanted to know the man who could be such an ignorant fool and went to look for him,” answered Lancelot. “Fortunately for him, I found him before Sir Orilus did; for as strong as he may be, he did not yet know how to wield a sword back then. I took him to Lord Gornemant of Gohort, whom I’d served for a while as a hired sword, to have him properly taught and trained. Because Sir Orilus won’t rest ere he has his vengeance, I’m afraid. He’s called the Haughty Knight of Heath for a reason.”

“That he is,” Sir Leon agreed. “The man has the worst reputation in three countries. Although,” he added with a brief glance in Percival’s direction, “this time he has every right to feel insulted on behalf of his lady.”

“I’m truly sorry,” muttered Percival uncomfortably. “I meant no harm, I swear.”

“Well, what’s done is done,” said Master Geoffrey philosophically. “At least we can see to it that you get a fair combat, man against man. Since you _are_ the son of Gahmuret the Angevin, we can have your Seal of Nobility confirmed and added to those of the other knights of Camelot. King Uther will accept you without protest; and if the Duke of Lalande has a grievance against you, he’ll have to challenge you and to fight you fairly.”

“In which case you have nothing to worry about,” Lancelot added. “I saw you fight. You’ll beat him with one arm bound behind your back.”

“I’m more worried about that poor lady,” replied Percival. “I treated her badly, albeit out of ignorance; I hope the Duke won’t abuse her for what was my fault.”

“Any idea who the lady might have been?” asked Arthur of Lancelot.

Lancelot shrugged. “The Duke called her Yitonne or something like that.

“You mean _Itonje_?” Sir Leon asked seriously.

Lancelot nodded. “Could be, yes. Why? Do you know her?”

“We all do,” Sir Leon looked at Arthur in anguish. “Sire, the Lady Itonje is the sister of Sir Geraint and Sir Erec.”

“ _Our_ Sir Erec?” Arthur remembered the young knight still lying in Gaius’ makeshift infirmary with grievous wounds. Sir Leon nodded.

“Yes, sire. And she’s not the lover of the Duke of Lalande; she’s his _wife_.”

“So what?” asked Lancelot, who did not know the nobles of the realm very well. “Percival would beat this Sir Erec, too, one-handed.”

“No doubt he would,” replied Geoffrey de Monmouth. “But neither Sir Erec’s father, the lord of Ester-Gales nor the Count of Laluth, whose daughter he has been courting for years, would take it kindly, should he be slain by a member of his own brotherhood. Moreover, Lord Lagres might demand reparation for the insult towards his daughter, too; and as he is one of the staunch supporters of the throne, Prince Arthur would do well to placate him at all costs. And there is still Sir Geraint to consider – he is one of the ranking knights of Camelot, who would be not so easy to beat in a combat.”

“It seems your mother did you great disservice,” said Arthur, looking at Percival with a regretful shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter, though. I won’t abandon those few who stood with me in Camelot’s darkest hour. I need you to rebuild that which has been destroyed; and to defend what little has been spared.”

“We need to find new knights and train them to defend Camelot properly,” Sir Leon reminded him. “Aside from the five of us, only Sir Geraint and Sir Bedivere have survived; and Bedivere is crippled from his wound he received while seeking for the Questing Beast.”

“What about Sir Pellinor?” asked Arthur of Gaius.

The court physician shrugged dejectedly. “No changes, sire. He is still lying like one dead, as he has done ever since that fateful fight, although he is still breathing. His… condition is beyond my ability to heal.”

“He won’t be of any use to us, unless we find a way to break the spell that holds him,” insisted Sir Leon. “It’s a miracle that he’s still alive, after two years, without eating or drinking. We cannot wait for another miracle; we need to fill up our ranks, _now_.”

“Believe me, Sir Leon, I’m all too aware of this,” Arthur sighed. “Do you have a suggestion how we might find new knights for Camelot? Not to mention how to train them properly in such a short time? For I do not think that it will take long before our neighbours would decide to take advantage of our weakened state.”

“I do, sire,” answered Sir Leon. “All our fallen knights have family: brothers, cousins, young uncles even. As all noblemen, they must have been properly trained from early childhood on – like I was. Like _my_ brother was. Let it be cried all over the realm that they may come to Camelot and prove themselves. They _will_ come. You can try them out and pick the best ones.”

“You mean _you_ can try them out,” Arthur corrected. “I shall leave this in your capable hands, Sir Leon. At least until my father recovers enough to take up his kingly duties again,” he added with a wistful tone, and Merlin suppressed a smile. He knew Arthur missed the daily training with his knights – most of whom were, sadly, dead. They had been his only company, and there had been an easy camaraderie between them, even though he stood above them like the bastions of Camelot.

Knowing the same thing and feeling truly sorry for his Crown Prince, Sir Leon bowed towards Arthur respectfully.

“I’ll do my best to find the most valiant knights for Camelot, sire,” he promised.

“I know you will,” replied Arthur. “You’ve been the strongest pillar upholding this castle since I can remember. I trust you unconditionally.” He turned to Gaius. “Has there been any word about Morgana?”

Gaius shook his head. “No, sire. She has not been seen since the immortality spell was broken; and neither has Morgause.”

“But they can’t be dead!” Arthur said. “We searched the rubble thoroughly, and there were no bodies!”

“No,” Gaius agreed. “They’re most certainly hiding… and will be for a while yet, until Morgause recovers. She took a heavy fall, but a sorceress like her isn’t easily killed. She will be back to haunt us, eventually.”

“But right now, she’s weakened,” said Gwaine. “Perhaps this would be the right time to hunt her down and give her the rest.”

Arthur shook his head. “We cannot waste time – or men – on a witch hunt, no matter how much I would _want_ her dead. We cannot even begin to guess where to look for her… for _them_.”

“I’d suggest Cenred’s kingdom,” said Merlin quietly, taking advantage of the rare (and temporary) fact that he was allowed to sit with them at the table. “Magic isn’t outlawed there, and Morgause has doubtlessly found allies among the mightiest of the land. Not everyone was happy with Cenred’s reign, even there.”

“Which is another reason why we cannot go after them,” Arthur pointed out logically. “Besides, Morgana would protect Morgause with all her might, and we’ve already seen what she’s capable of.”

“Even if you managed to destroy her, Uther would never forgive you,” Gaius added grimly. “No matter what she’s done, she’s still his daughter, and he loves her beyond reason.”

“I know,” Arthur sighed. “I wish my father hadn’t outlawed magic in Camelot. It seems to me that it’s mostly the harmless ones that we catch and kill. The truly evil ones are shrewd enough to defend themselves, leaving _us_ defenceless against _them_.”

Gaius stole a glance at Merlin, recognized the wistful look on the young warlock’s face – Merlin was really too open for his own good sometimes – and kicked him in the shin warningly.

“Perhaps so, sire,” he said. “But as long as your father is King, you cannot change the law. You can remember all this when you come into your own, though, and consider very carefully if there’s anything you would want to change.”

“You mean I should allow the use of magic again, once I’m king?” Arthur’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“No, sire,” answered Gaius patiently. “I’m just saying that _if_ you decide to change anything, you should consider carefully _what_ that would be.”

Arthur stared at him for a moment, trying to find some hidden meaning behind his words, but he could not. So he turned back to Sir Leon, who had been acting lately as his seneschal – among half a dozen other things.

“Are there still refugees coming to Camelot?” he asked.

“A great many of them, sire, looking for work that would feed them and their families,” replied Sir Leon. “Some of them we can certainly employ within the Citadel – many of our faithful servants have been killed as well – but there are more than I can deal with, unless I was to neglect my more important duties.”

“I can make Gwen the chatelaine of the castle,” offered Arthur. “That would take some of the burden off your shoulders.”

His unofficial privy council went very silent at that. Everyone with eyes to see had noticed the Crown Prince’s growing attachment to Gwen, and none of them begrudged him a little happiness. That did not mean, however, that they would agree with his choice. They all knew Uther would never allow it – he had very nearly had Gwen executed for enchanting his son and heir just a short time ago – and neither did they believe that a serving wench would be the right person to become Queen of Camelot. Not even her own brother.

“I believe, sire, you should choose someone whom your father, too, would approve of,” said Geoffrey de Monmouth after a lengthy, uncomfortable silence. “A man of proper birth, who could become the seneschal of Camelot _permanently_. Serving under that man as the chatelaine, Guinevere could still reign over the serving women; that would be a more suitable task for her, now that her lady is gone – and it would keep her in the Citadel.”

Arthur considered the suggestion for a moment, clearly reluctant to give up his plan concerning Gwen.

“Do you have someone in mind?” he then asked.

The court genealogist nodded in obvious relief. “Indeed I do, sire. Give me a few days to contact the family, and I shall provide you with a seneschal not even King Uther would reject.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The next few days were spent in frantic activity, everyone trying their best to deal with the aftermath of Morgana’s reign. Gaius was looking after the sick and the injured. Sir Leon was trying and testing the young noblemen who had, indeed, come to Camelot in surprisingly great numbers to become knights, while dabbling in the duties of the seneschal as much as his time allowed.

Gwen divided her time between helping him and Gaius, ultimately, while taking care of Uther who – driven half-mad by Morgana's betrayal – was literally locked in his room to keep him safe, until he came to terms with what had happened… if he ever did. There were some days when Arthur seriously asked himself whether his father would, indeed, recover at all, or if he would have to take on the burdens of kingship upon himself before he actually _became_ king… and how long _that_ might take.

Elyan had returned to his forge, picked up two apprentices, and they were busily repairing jagged weapons and bent armour – when they were not helping the carpenters, roofers and stone-masons to rebuild Camelot’s defences, destroyed by the war machines of Cenred’s army. They also had to hammer out all the twisted iron bars from splintered doors and gates, of which there were plenty.

“We are fortunate that another blacksmith has fled to Camelot from one of the outlying villages,” he told Gwen as they were sitting in their father’s house, having a meagre supper that would not have fed a scrawny child, let alone a grown man who had worked hard at his forge all day. “Otherwise, we would not be able to catch up with all the work at all. Even so, I might have to take on more helpers – if I could only afford to feed them.”

Food – or rather the lack of it – was becoming their most serious problem. Two harvests had been more or less destroyed in recent years; first by the Great Dragon’s attack and then by the armies of Cenred, and resources were running dangerously low. It was not as bad as it had been after the killing of the unicorn, but it was coming close.

“We must open the granaries to feed our people, sire,” argued Geoffrey de Monmouth. “They are on the brink of starvation as it is.”

“We cannot do that,” replied Arthur tiredly. “The granaries aren’t even half-full, and they are the only means to get our people through the coming winter. We’ll need what’s there.” 

And he ordered the watch on the granaries to be doubled, just in case.

Merlin, who whole-heartedly agreed with him, put a spell on the granary doors, so that they could only be opened when he released them. _And_ he magically fortified the gates themselves, just in case. One could never be too careful when people feared starvation.

Percival used his great strength – when he was not helping Sir Leon train the new knights-to-be, that is – to help with the rebuilding of the Citadel’s defences. Seeing a nobleman labour among the builders shocked the people at first, but when they got to know him and his uncouth innocence a little better, they grew fond of him quickly, and he seemed to enjoy himself and the hard work quite a lot.

Geoffrey de Monmouth was doing the sad task of listing all the people who had been slain by Cenred’s immortal army, so that their families could be given word about their fate. He had also taken the necessary steps to have Percival’s Seal of Nobility re-created and to contact the family of the future seneschal of Camelot.

Lancelot was riding patrols with some sturdy men-at-arms, so that no enemy could approach Camelot unobserved. Gwaine did the same, with different troops. Both brought back more disheartening news about the state of the villages they had visited, every time they returned; and even more refugees, streaming to Camelot in the hope of food and shelter – things that Camelot was slowly running out of.

As for Merlin, he was trying to keep Arthur sane amidst all this insanity, while doing his best to help Gaius, and – secretly – making great efforts to heal the scorched earth and the burned forests, neither of which was an easy task. There was another thing that concerned him more, though – more than just the lack of food and Camelot lying in ruins.

“The Cup of Life cannot stay in Camelot,” he warned Arthur. ”We saw what it can do in the wrong hands. If Morgause finds a way to get it back…”

“We’ll wall it in, down in the vaults,” Arthur suggested. “She’d never find it there.”

Merlin shook his head. “Morgana knows Camelot like the back of her hand, remember? We must get the Cup somewhere _safe_. It must be well-hidden and well-protected.”

“Merlin, the Druids won’t be able to protect it any better than we do,” Arthur pointed out. “In case you’ve forgotten, _we_ were able to take it from them without breaking a sweat.”

“Only because they didn’t want any bloodshed,” Merlin riposted. “I wasn’t thinking of the Druids, though.”

“So what?” Arthur demanded. “Do you really think there’s someone who could resist the combined powers of Morgana and Morgause? Because I seriously doubt _that_.”

“Not _someone_ ,” answered Merlin, knowing all too well that he wasn’t experienced enough to do that indeed. “ _Something_. I’m suggesting sinking the Cup under the waters of Avalon, the Fairie Lake.”

“You mean the pool where Sophia tried to drown me, so that she could become one of the Sidhe again?” asked Arthur in a falsely light tone. The memories of that day, floating under the surface of the lake, still haunted his dreams sometimes.

Merlin nodded. “The very same, yes. The Cup will be safe there; the Sidhe don’t need it, and they won’t let mortal men have it.”

He consciously left out the part where Freya, now transformed into something beyond mortal existence, lived at the bottom of the Lake, but he was sure she would keep an eye on the Cup for them. Arthur must have felt that he was keeping something from him because he looked at him most suspiciously for a moment – then he apparently decided _not_ to ask… for the time being anyway. Merlin had no doubts that the investigation _would_ happen eventually.

“I cannot leave Camelot now,” the Prince finally said, and Merlin nodded in agreement.

“Of course not,” he answered cheerfully. “ _I’ll_ go.”

“ _You_?” Arthur stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted another head. “Merlin, are you _insane_? You really think I’d allow _you_ of all people to stroll across the woods – which, I’m sure you know, are full of wolves and footpads – with possibly the most dangerous magical trinket in Albion in your bag?”

“Yes,” replied Merlin airily. Arthur glanced heavenwards, as if expecting some higher power to come to his aid.

“And why, by all that is holy, would I do _that_?” he asked with a patience he did not really feel.

Merlin shrugged and gave him one of those adorably dorky smiles that could always disarm him, no matter how angry he might be.

“Because no-one would really expect _me_ to carry anything of value?” he suggested.

Arthur had to admit that there was some truth in _that_. Still, he found Merlin’s idea monumentally stupid. He told him so – and was rewarded by a full-force Merlin pout, complete with the patented look of hurt innocence that not even a kicked puppy could have performed any better.

“All right,” he said tiredly. “I cannot let you go alone, obviously; you’re clumsy and useless and would break your leg after the first mile, or cut yourself with an eating knife and bleed to death. But if you find someone even remotely skilled in fighting to go with you, you may go.”

Merlin’s delightful grin almost made him reconsider, as he had little doubt that his idiot of a manservant _would_ find someone to go with him, sooner or later. Merlin had a way with people, and if something was important enough for him, he displayed an almost uncanny talent to make them do his bidding. Those deep blue eyes, combined with the sad expression of a lost puppy, usually did the trick.

Sometimes Arthur wished he could learn that particular trick, too.

In the end, he did _not_ reconsider, though. Merlin was right; they needed to get the Cup out of Camelot and to someplace safe where Morgause could not lay her hands on it. For a magical trinket supposed to give life, it could too easily be turned into a terrible weapon.

Which reminded him of something…

“Before you take the Cup away, though,” he said, “could we not use it to save Erec, Owain and Pellinor? Or is this another one of those _to save a life you must take a life_ sort of things?”

Merlin shook his head. “No; they aren’t dead or dying. But the Cup only works with a powerful healing spell.”

Arthur raised a golden eyebrow. “So? Gaius can cast it, I’m sure. After all, he used to be a sorcerer once.”

“Yeah, and he avoided execution by _giving up_ sorcery, in case you’ve forgotten,” Merlin returned sharply. “I won’t have him burned at the stake, so you can just forget it!”

“No-one needs to know,” said Arthur in a low voice. “Not even _I need_ to know.”

“If your father ever finds out…” began Merlin, but Arthur interrupted him.

“Why should he? He doesn’t take notice of much these days; we can’t even let him out of his chambers alone. Merlin, I need those knights! _Camelot_ needs them! There are so few of us left, and it will take time to train the new ones.”

This, of course, was very true, and Merlin found it hard to argue with the simple truth.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll talk to Gaius. But this is _his_ decision, not mine.”

“Of course,” Arthur agreed. “It’s also possible that he _can’t_ do it at all. I’d be grateful if he could at least try, though.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Merlin, knowing all too well that he’d be able to heal the ailing knights without great effort, and feeling vaguely guilty about deceiving Arthur and getting his mentor in danger at the same time.

“That’s all I’m asking,” Arthur replied. “Now, I have to meet Gwen about those new kitchen maids she wants to employ, but I’ll want you back tonight, when Sir Leon presents his chosen candidates for knighthood.”

“In the time of famine, you really ought to find more convincing excuses to see Gwen,” Merlin commented with a wide grin, already heading for the door to find Gaius.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As expected, he found his mentor in the workshop, where the old physician was cooking up some concoction to treat the scrapes and bruises the men rebuilding Camelot frequently suffered. What he had _not_ expected was to find his mother with Gaius. Hunith looked bruised and battered, her clothes soiled with the dust of the long way she had clearly made on foot from Ealdor to Camelot… and her left arm was in a sling. She must have suffered severe mistreatment, either on the road or back in her home village already.

“Mother!” exclaimed Merlin, running to her and hugging her carefully, not wanting to jostle her apparently broken arm. “What happened to you?”

“Lawless men fell on Ealdor and burned the village to the ground,” explained Hunith with a weary sigh. “We tried to defend our homes… and lost. Many died; the others fled to the nearest settlements. But I… I didn’t want to live at the mercy of strangers…”

“Of course not; your place is here with us, Hunith,” said Gaius gently. “We don’t have much, but what we _do_ have is yours, girl. You should have come earlier.”

Hunith shook her head tiredly. “As long as I still had a home, I belonged to Ealdor,” she said. “I hope that one day I may return and rebuild that home. Until then, though, I gladly accept any shelter you can offer, Uncle.”

“You can have my room,” Merlin offered eagerly. “It’s not much, but you can be undisturbed there. I’ll go and sleep in the antechamber of Arthur’s room, like all other servants do with their masters.”

“No,” Gaius said. “No, that won’t do. You need a place for yourself where you can study without being caught. It’s important. And Hunith needs a little more room to live than your small chamber.”

“You have a plan, don’t you?” asked Merlin with twinkling eyes. Gaius nodded.

“I do indeed. Alice’s house is still standing empty. Your mother can move in there, tend to the house, keep it from falling apart. There she will have her own life, yet will be close enough to call upon you, should she need any help.”

“But what if Alice returns?” asked Hunith. 

She clearly knew who Alice was, which made Merlin wonder what other secrets his mother was still keeping from him. Secrets from her youth, from long before his birth – from a time when magic had not yet been outlawed in Camelot and winged dragons draw their wide circles high above in the air.

Gaius smiled at his niece encouragingly. “I don’t think that she would mind; although I doubt that she will come back any time soon. She always liked you, Hunith; thought of you as if you were her own daughter. A daughter she could never have. Besides, I have recently purchased the house; I have every right to dispose of it.”

“ _You_?” Hunith repeated in surprise. Gaius shrugged.

“I’m a free man of Camelot, I can have property to my name if I want to; and I didn’t want strangers to move into the house… turn it upside down, change everything. There are too many memories of happier times there. Besides, I wanted Merlin to have a place to go, should he ever want to leave Prince Arthur’s service.”

Merlin shook his head. “I can’t, Gaius; you know that.”

“You cannot leave _now_ ,” Gaius corrected. “But who can foretell what will happen in a year’s time? Or five? Or ten? You need a place that you can call yours, and as the two of you are the only kin I have left, it’s my responsibility to provide it.”

Hunith looked at him with wide, shining eyes. “You have always been like a father to me, Uncle Gaius; more generous than any father could ever be, in truth.”

“Nonsense,” Gaius smiled tiredly. “I’m just a selfish old man who wants to keep what little family he still has close. Now, Merlin, why don’t you help your mother get comfortable in that house?”

“In a moment,” Merlin replied, eyeing the broken arm of his mother in concern. “As soon as I’ve healed that arm.”

“Merlin, you can’t!” protested Hunith, suddenly very frightened. “If people find out what you’ve done…”

“Why should they?” Merlin interrupted. “You’ve just arrived with your arm in a sling. Gaius had a look at it and found that it was only bruised, not broken, after all. No, mother,” he said, seeing that Hunith wanted to protest some more. “What good would my gift be for me if I could not even spare my mother some unnecessary suffering? I _am_ healing that arm now, so please stop arguing, will you?”

He seemed so determined that Hunith gave up, allowing him to unwrap her arm that was black and blue with bruises indeed. Merlin took the broken limb between his palms, focused and murmured something in an unknown, harsh-sounding archaic language. His eyes flashed gold, and Hunith could feel the broken bones in her arm realign themselves and knit slowly. It hurt very much, but it was a good hurt, one that promised future healing.

“Done!” Merlin finally declared, his eyes turning back to their usual deep blue again. “I left some of the pain, so that people won’t become suspicious by your sudden healing, but it will fade in a day or two… I hope. I’m not used to practicing healing magic.”

“You’re a good boy.” Hunith kissed him on the cheek, and Merlin blushed and pulled in his neck, trying _not_ to look too self-satisfied, but the truth was, the praise of his mother meant the world to him. More than anything else.

“Off you go!” Gaius hustled them out of the door. “And hurry back, Merlin. We’ve got a great number of patients to treat… the old-fashioned way.”

That reminded Merlin of Arthur’s request concerning the ailing knights and his good mood was blown away at once. Gaius noticed it, of course, but did not ask any questions, not wanting to make Hunith more worried than she already was. He knew Merlin would tell him about the problem, as soon as he found the right moment to do so.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Mistress Alice’s house – that now belonged to Gaius – stood in the lower town, in one of the less prominent side streets lined by the shops of small craftsmen; candle-makers, honey-makers, oil and spice merchants and pastry cooks, mostly. The shops of the food purveyors were presently more or less abandoned, due to the current food shortage, and even the shutters were bolted shut. In a tailor’s shop, however, three or four doors further down the street, the master tailor was sitting inside, cutting and sewing away on pieces of drab homespun cloth. The lower town was a district where the small people lived, with little (if any) money in their purses. Finer and more expensive fabrics than rough wool were not in great demand here.

Seeing their approach, the tailor looked up hopefully. After a fleeting glance at Hunith’s battered appearance, though, his hopes quickly deflated again. He was a small, bird-like man in his middle years, his back permanently bent from having crouched over his work for many years by now. He did not seem well-fed, even less so than the rest of the people residing in Camelot, and he clearly did not entertain high hopes that his situation would improve any time soon.

“Poor man,” muttered Hunith as her son guided her by the tailor’s shop towards the little stone house with a tiny, open veranda in front instead of a shop window. “It seems he has not had many customers lately.”

“Few of the small craftsmen did,” answered Merlin thoughtfully. “What little money the people in the lower town had, they’ve already spent on food… if they could find any. These are hard times for Camelot. But perhaps we can get you some clothes from Master Richert here, once you’ve settled down a bit.”

“Merlin, I cannot afford new clothes,” Hunith smiled in sorrow. “I never had any money to spare, you know that. We barely managed it on the food we grew from one year to the next, even without Kanen’s band robbing us of our living.”

“I remember,” replied Merlin grimly. “I’ve only been away for three years. But I serve the Crown Prince himself, and I get paid… well, sometimes. Enough to not let my mother go around in filthy rags.”

“But you should save your money!” protested Hunith. “You’re a young man; you have _needs_.”

His son gave her one of those blinding smiles that could cheer up a rainy day.

“Of course I have needs,” he said lightly. “I need to take good care of my mother, for example.”

Not waiting for her answer, he pulled back the latch and opened the heavy, iron-bound door of the small house. It opened with a loud creak, letting the sunlight stream into the dim interior, dancing on the dust in the air. The inside of the house consisted of a single room with two rather small windows left and right of the door and a low roof, supported by a sturdy, vertical oak beam in the middle. It was a fairly bleak room, its stone walls not covered with plaster; although they were lined with wooden shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling. On some of the shelves, mortars and bottles and small clay pots stood between bouquets of drying herbs, even the odd book on herbal medicine. Just as Mistress Alice had left them when she had had to flee Camelot again a few weeks earlier.

The furniture, too, was sparse at best. There were two sturdy wooden tables; one right opposite the door, with two high-backed chairs that seemed to have seen better days; the other one, clearly a work bench, on the right side, under the larger window. On the same side stood a bed, but further into the room, beyond the central beam. It was a rather simple bed, looking almost like a wooden box, but at least it had been suitably provided with pillows and blankets and bedlinens… all of which Mistress Alice had been forced to leave behind.

Two large, iron-bound chests stood in the farthest corners. A quick look inside revealed more bedding and even towels in one and some clothes in the other one. All of it clearly needed a thorough airing, but at least they were clean, and in the end, they could be used – until Hunith had the means to replace that which the burning of Ealdor had destroyed. Right now, she could not be choosy, as she had literally nothing, save the clothes she was wearing, and even those were in really bad shape.

A small door opposite the entrance led into a tiny, walled garden behind the house; Mistress Alice had once clearly used it to grow her own herbs. The garden was now just a wild patch of uncontrollable growth, but the small wash-house and the privy leaning against the wall could still be used – and it had even its own stone well in the middle of the long-gone beets. Granted, one without a pump, where the bucket had to be pulled up by hand, but it hadn’t been any different in Ealdor. Hunith was used to that.

In truth, the little house offered all the meagre comfort she had used to have in her old home – and then some. It was also close to her son. She was certain that she would do just fine here, until the chance to return to Ealdor offered itself.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Gaius when Merlin finally returned to the Citadel. “I was worried about her, and I know that you were, too.”

“A little,” Merlin confessed. “I’ve missed her very much. It’s good to have her within reach, should she need any help.”

“So it is,” Gaius agreed. “So, now that your mother is settled down, can you tell me what’s eating you? And don’t tell me it’s nothing; I know you far too well to believe _that_.”

“It’s Arthur,” Merlin admitted. “He wants us to use the Cup of Life to heal Sir Erec and Sir Pellinor… or at least give it a try.”

“ _Us_?” Gaius repeated with a raised eyebrow. “Merlin, you haven’t done anything foolish, have you?”

“Of course not!” snapped Merlin indignantly. “He wants _you_ to use the Cup, since he knows that once upon a time you used to dabble in sorcery.”

Gaius shook his head. “I’m not sure I can handle a spell powerful enough to make the Cup heal those young men.”

“Well, _I can_ ,” said Merlin. “I could heal them easily. But then Arthur would think _you_ had been the one to cast the spell; and should it ever come out, _you_ would be the one thrown into the dungeons and executed for practicing magic.”

“Only if it comes out while Uther is still King,” replied Gaius calmly.

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Great, because he’s going to hand over kingship to Arthur while he still can draw breath! Arthur might be inclined to be more… tolerant, especially when the needs of Camelot are this pressing, but he cannot change the law; not as long as his _father_ is King. And Uther would show you no mercy, just because you’ve served him faithfully for twenty years or more.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Gaius agreed. “In fact, he would be much harder on me than on any common sorcerer. He doesn’t take betrayal lightly.”

“So, there you have it then,” declared Merlin angrily. Gaius smiled.

“My boy, I am an old man. I’ve seen much and done much, little of which was truly important, but I can say _one_ thing with clean conscience: I’ve always served Camelot and its people to the best of my abilities. I’ve always put the needs of Camelot before my own interests and desires.”

“I know you have,” Merlin began, but Gaius interrupted him.

“And now Camelot needs its remaining knights to be ready and strong enough to defend the people. Those young men, who have been lying at death’s door for years, still have their entire life before them – and they are _needed_. Now we may have the means to heal them and to give Camelot the protection of two more excellent swords. _And_ Prince Arthur even approves. So what if Uther finds out? I may not be a knight, but I’ll gladly give up my life to save Camelot.”

“But… but _you’d_ be punished for something _I’d_ have done!” said Merlin miserably. Gaius smiled and patted his back in a fatherly manner.

“Does it truly matter? I _would_ cast the spell myself, if I had the powers to do so; alas, I do not, but I’d be willing. You see, you’ll be just a substitute. Someone to do _my_ work where I no longer can do it myself.”

“That’s twisting the truth, and you know it,” Merlin accused him. Gaius shrugged.

“Of course. How else, do you think, have I managed to survive in Uther’s court all these years? Merlin, you ought to have learned by now that truth is not an absolute value. It only does any good as long as it causes no harm.”

“I thought that was a physician’s oath,” said Merlin. “To cause no harm.”

Gaius nodded. “So it is. I’ve took that oath many years ago: to save lives, to help people. Do you expect me to go back on my solemn promise, just because saving someone might get me into trouble?”

Merlin shook his head in reluctant amusement. “I can’t win against you, can I?”

“No, you can’t,” Gaius replied placidly. “You’re still way too young and innocent for _that_. Now, do we agree that Sir Erec, Sir Owain and Sir Pellinor need to be healed?”

Merlin nodded reluctantly. “When do you want me to do it?”

“Not right away,” said Gaius. “Not while the court is full of visitors; this is not something I want strangers to learn about. As soon as they’ve left, though. Sir Erec and Sir Pellinor will need a long time to recover, even after they’ve been healed. They’ll be weak and disoriented for quite a while yet; and Prince Arthur will have to work them hard ere they’ll regain their usual skills with the sword.”

“I wonder _when_ he’s going to find the time to do that,” Merlin commented worriedly. “He’s half-smothered by the burden of kingship already, and he isn’t even King yet. He was not prepared for this. He’s doing his best, but…”

“About that,” said Gaius calmly, “you no longer need to worry. Geoffrey has received word from Sir Ector; he’s about to arrive today. And once he’s here, he’ll take a considerable part of the burden from Prince Arthur’s shoulders. He did the same for Uther once, after all.”


	2. Chapter 2

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 02 – THE BROTHERHOOD**

At any other time, presenting the new knight-probationers to the King – or, as the case might be, to the Prince Regent – would have been a joyous event, requiring a festive banquet, with a great deal of music, dancing and games. Given the fact that Camelot was currently a ravaged realm on the brink of famine, though, the festivities were kept on a rather subdued level.

Sir Ector of the Marshes arrived in the late afternoon, accompanied by his heir and a hunting party. They had apparently been successful on the way to Camelot, as the huntsmen were carrying a stag, a couple of fat boars and a great number of fowl hanging from their shoulders. All of this their lord offered to the royal kitchens, so that at least the noble guests would eat well this evening – and the people of the Citadel, who would be given the leftovers afterwards.

Merlin watched Sir Ector with great interest. The man seemed to be roughly of King Uther’s age and height, but of a much more slender build that suggested wiry strength. His sandy hair, generously peppered with grey, was round-cut, in the fashion the knights of the eastern provinces preferred. His sharp features revealed a strong will and a shrewd mind; his deep-set eyes were dark grey, and his long nose gave his whole face a grave expression. He was clearly not unblooded in battle, if the proud carriage of his lean body and the way he moved around, with a controlled economy of movement, were any indication.

His heir must have taken after his mother, as there was little to no likeness between the two of them. Sir Kay was a tall, handsome young man, with short, curly dark blond hair, and with an open, honest, bearded face. He was a few years older than Arthur, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six, and already knighted. He wore a hunting tunic of fine brown wool and a sleeveless leather jerkin similar to that of Sir Ector, and a large hunting bow across his back.

The older servants of the castle came forth to greet Sir Ector with delight and great respect; Geoffrey de Monmouth hurrying in front of all to welcome him. Even King Uther, who had not shown his face publicly since Morgana’s last disappearance, came out of his chambers for a short time. He and Sir Ector embraced each other tightly before the eyes of everyone.

“Are they related somehow, or are they just old friends?” asked Merlin in surprise. In the three years he had lived in Camelot, Uther had never shown such public appreciation for anyone – not even for his only son.

“Related… but not by blood, only by marriage,” explained Gaius. “You do remember the Black Knight, called back to unlife by Nimueh, don’t you?”

Merlin nodded. _Of course_ he remembered the undead monster. Sir Owain and Sir Pellinor, still lying at death’s door, were reminder enough, even if he _could_ forget the horrors of those days. The fear that Arthur might be slain by his vengeful uncle.

Gaius sighed. “Then you’ll also remember that while alive, the Black Knight was Tristan de Bois, King Ygraine’s brother.” Merlin nodded again. That had not been a pleasant realization, for either of them. “Well, Sir Kay is the son of that Tristan de Blois.”

“What?” Merlin asked, fairly shocked. “He’s not the son of Sir Ector?”

“In a way, he is,” said Gaius. “When his father died, Sir Ector, who’s the brother of Kay’s late mother, took the boy under his wing, raised him as his own son and made him his heir. People say he’s done an excellent job with the boy, and Kay grew up to become an honourable young man and a brave knight.”

“So, he’s actually Arthur’s cousin?” Merlin tried to clarify things. Gaius nodded.

“The closest kin our Prince has… well, aside from Morgana, that is.”

“Let’s hope Arthur will be better off with him than with Morgana,” commented Merlin grimly.

“I hope so, too,” Gaius agreed. “That’s why Geoffrey’s called them. Sir Ector has already helped Uther through a very hard time, after the death of Queen Ygraine, and Uther will need his support again. But when the day comes, hopefully Arthur will be able to rely on Sir Kay.”

“Why have I never heard of them?” asked Merlin. “Arthur often talks about the noblemen of the realm and about the allies of his father – why has he never mentioned having a cousin?”

“They’ve never been close,” replied Gaius. “The lands of Sir Ector lie beyond the realm of King Olaf, so he rarely visits Camelot. Arthur and Sir Kay have met perhaps half a dozen times in all their lives.”

“And whenever they did meet, they were at each other’s throats… right?” asked Merlin, because Gaius’ expression had spoken volumes.

The old man nodded in rueful amusement.

“Kay was the older and until recently, he was also stronger, more skilled with the sword… and Morgana had taken a liking to him, or so it seemed, while she did nothing but mercilessly tease Prince Arthur all his life. They were very young, all three of them, and fairly competitive.”

“I bet Arthur hated being bested by Kay… and that in front of Morgana, no less,” grinned Merlin. Gaius shot him a warning look.

“That is _Sir_ Kay to you; don’t forget that most nobles are not as forgiving towards insolent servants as Prince Arthur is towards you.”

“ _Forgiving_?” Merlin spluttered indignantly. “You’ve seen what he puts me through all the time. While I’m saving that ungrateful backside of his again and again – you call _that_ forgiving?”

Gaius shook his head in exasperation. “Yes, you are, but he doesn’t know that, and that’s good, or else you’d have been burned at the stake already – or be running for your life at this very moment,” he said, a little more sharply than intended. “Your only safety is to make everyone think you’re just a servant… and a fairly clumsy one at that. Trust me: had you been serving any other master than Prince Arthur, you’d have long learned how to walk on your knees… permanently.”

Merlin made an unhappy face but stopped arguing because – as much as he hated to admit it – he knew that Gaius was right. Arthur _did_ let him get away with a lot of things other servants would have been flogged within an inch of their lives for. The worst he had ever experienced was the stocks, and _that_ was something he had almost got used to.”

They could not follow that line of that conversation, though, as other guests kept arriving all afternoon (most of them courteously bringing considerable food reserves with them to ease the burden of Camelot), and for a while, all helping hands were needed; including Merlin’s. When finally the last noble party had been put away in proper guest quarters – the only thing Camelot presently had aplenty was _space_ – Merlin was so tired he could have fallen onto his cot like a log. And the banquet was just about to begin.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
There had been a great deal of speculation in the Citadel as to whether King Uther would make an appearance at the banquet – he had never missed such an important event before – and _if_ he did, would he tolerate the presence of Prince Arthur’s recently-dubbed knights. That Uther had come forth long enough to greet Sir Ector had given food to wild guesswork, but on _one_ thing everyone agreed: _if_ Uther attended the banquet, the fireworks between him and his heir were going to be spectacular.

The more sensible parties – among them Merlin, Gaius and Geoffrey de Monmouth, once again standing with the other servants and waiting to take their place at the lower tables – were greatly relieved when they saw that Uther had chosen not to preside over tonight’s feast. Having the heroes of the great battle against Cenred’s immortal army thrown out of the Great Hall would have caused a scandal they could not use at the moment.

Merlin was equally relieved to see that Arthur, for his part, had had the sense _not_ to invite Gwen to sit by his side at the high table. Not that she did not deserve the same honour as her brother; but having a simple handmaid among them would have antagonized the visiting nobles, and that was something Camelot could not afford right now. In these hard times, every ally was of crucial importance, and Arthur could not follow his heart where protocol would disagree.

Thus Gwen was standing among the servants, too, although her fine gown of richly embroidered silk, suitable for a high-born lady rather than for a serving wench, stood out of the crowd rather visibly. Unlike in old times, though, she seemed decidedly unhappy with her status; the scowl on her face was not a thing of beauty, if Merlin wanted to be honest.

As Uther’s old steward had been killed during Morgana’s blessedly short reign (under circumstances that were still unclear and might never be fully revealed), one of the older, trusted servants, a man named Morris, took over the duties of doorkeeper. As was custom in Camelot, only Arthur and his household had entered the Great Hall through the back door – the one leading to the royal wing of the castle – and had taken their places, waiting for the guests to arrive. These would come through the main entrance: the _Porta Speciosa_ , as the intricately carved and adorned doors were called, with the doorkeeper announcing loudly their names and their rank. A horn was also blown before every new group of guests entered.

Today’s guests of honour were the first ones to be allowed in, of course, and after the short horn-call, Morris announced them in a clear, ringing voice.

“Sir Ector of the Marshes with his heir, Sir Kay de Blois!”

In they came, now decked out splendidly in bag-sleeved cotehardies of the finest brocade, black with small silver buttons for the lord and deep burgundy red with somewhat larger golden buttons for his heir, girdled with thin leather belts, adorned with small flower motifs of silver and gold, respectively. They were led to the high table, where Sir Ector was seated on Arthur’s right – which would have been Arthur’s own place, had the King graced the feast with his appearance – while Sir Kay was given the place that had once belonged to Morgana. It was his right; after all, he was Arthur’s closest kin now, with Morgana’s fate still uncertain. Still, it made Merlin feel… strange, as he realized that Camelot no longer had a lady – _any_ lady – to claim that orphaned seat.

Not unless Arthur got his wish and made Gwen sit in that seat, that is. But that was not going to happen for a while yet… if ever.

Another horn-call signalled the arrival of new guests, and Morris called out.

“Sir Gaheris of Orkney and his brothers, Sir Agravaine and Gareth.”

Three tall, dark-haired men came in two knights and a squire, wearing identical, ankle-length tunics of heavy silk, in dark brown and olive green, girdled with thin belts and with basically the same coat-of-arms emblazoned on their breasts, with the small modifications that marked them as the second, third and fourth sons, respectively, as Master Geoffrey murmured into Gaius’ ears. They were a spectacular sight.

“What about the firstborn, though?” asked Merlin, having caught the tail end of the conversation.

Master Geoffrey shrugged. “They say that King Lot of Orkney first sired a son by a noblewoman who was not his wife. That lady took the child, while it was still a babe in arms, to a foreign kingdom, begrudging Lot his firstborn for not having married her. Apparently, Sir Gaheris and the others have been looking for their elder brother for years, but so far in vain.”

The three sons of King Lot were seated on Sir Ector’s right, not being family, and the horn sounded again.

“Sir Percival the Angevin, son of Gahmuret,” Morris called.

The Percival who was now allowed entrance looked markedly different from the uncouth simpleton Merlin had come to know and like. Wearing the colours and the coat-of-arms of his legendary father, he offered an impressive sight indeed in the tapestry-patterned, bright red brocade, edged with soft gold… even if he looked decidedly uncomfortable in his newly-regained splendour.

Fortunately for him, he was given the seat next to Sir Kay, who soon involved him in a conversation Percival seemed to enjoy. Merlin’s opinion about Arthur’s cousin went up several notches. Apparently, Kay had a way of making people feel comfortable in his company – that could prove useful, if he was to stand behind Arthur’s throne one day.

The next horn-call, again, greeted familiar faces… at least one out of three.

“Sir Leon de Gaunes, First Knight of Camelot, with his brothers, Sir Bors and Lionel,” announced Morris.

 _That_ caught Merlin’s interest. He knew that Sir Leon had brothers, but this was the first time he had heard the full name of Camelot’s most faithful knight.

“Sir Leon is not from Camelot?” he asked Gwen, who knew the man best, after all.

“Oh, he is; both he and his brothers were born here,” explained Gwen. “But his father, Sir Leontes, was the brother of King Bors, the ruler of one of countless petty kingdoms that have since fallen to one of the stronger realms. The family fled to Camelot after the fall of King Bors, as Sir Leontes had been one of Uther’s stout supporters.”

“There seems to be a lot of royal blood around there,” commented Merlin, watching Sir Leon and his brothers stride up the length of the Great Hall to take their seats next to Perceval.

Sir Bors had a marked resemblance to his older brother: the same eyes, the same curly blond hair and very similar features, although Bors was not bearded. Lionel, their youngest brother, could not be any older than seventeen or eighteen: a smooth-faced, pretty youth with shoulder length, wavy tresses, light brown rather than the blond of his brothers’. On his way up, he flashed a smile of easy recognition at Gwen, admitting to their long acquaintance and not caring what the court might think.

Merlin decided that he was going to like Sir Leon’s younger brother.

The next call announced Sir Alynor, once the celebrated star of all jousting tournaments, who had only recently regained his full strength, after having been grievously injured by the assassin Myror more than a year earlier. He was clad entirely in black, cotehardie, hose and leather coat, with his curly, dark hair hanging over his shoulders, and he took his seat next to Sir Leon’s brothers without invitation. 

He was followed by Sir Geraint – the eldest son of Lord Lagres of Ester-Gales and brother to the still ailing Sir Erec – and his wife, the Lady Cunneware of Lalander. Sir Geraint had come to Camelot to fill the place of his younger brother who had been wounded during the Great Dragon’s attack, as his House owed the King an able-bodied knight. He was a battle-hardened veteran on whom Arthur could always count. 

He and his lady were followed by Sir Ragnor, who had only survived Morgana’s reign by having run into an ambush a few weeks earlier and laid in some peasant’s hut, wounded and feverish, all the time. He seemed to have more or less recuperated from his ordeal, but was still very pale. Other than them, only Sir Bedivere was still alive from the Knights of Camelot; and even Bedivere had had to be reassigned as Uther’s cup-bearer, having escaped from the hunt after the Questing Beast with a stiff leg.

“Sir Yvain the Valiant, son of King Urien,” announced Morris after the next horn-call, and in walked a sharply handsome knight of about thirty years, with short, curly auburn hair and exceptionally large, hazel eyes, clad in sombre dark velvet.

“As I said: lots of royal blood around,” said Merlin, watching the proud knight walk along the Great Hall as if he owned the place. “Who’s King Urien anyway?”

“The lord of another petty kingdom who probably only ruled over his own castle and a few outlying villages,” replied Gaius. “There was a time, before Uther established his rule in Camelot, when every robber baron in possession of a wooden watchtower called himself a king. They fought each other for land and riches, and the simple folk suffered greatly. Uther might have his faults, but he _did_ bring peace and prosperity to Camelot; never forget _that_.”

“I won’t,” promised Merlin darkly. “Neither will I forget the price it came with.”

For a moment, Gaius stared at him in shock, understanding perhaps for the first time that as much as Merlin had accepted his destiny, he would always look at _Uther’s_ deeds from the perspective of the hunted. He could _not_ see them in any other light. It was the core of his very existence that Uther had outlawed and declared evil.

“This Sir Yvain,” Merlin then said, deliberately changing the topic. “Is he half as good with the sword as he is arrogant? Because he does seem mightily content with himself.”

“Oh, he’s quite famous, actually,” replied Gaius. “He’s known to have rescued a lion when he was just a page still, killing a dragon in the defence of a noble beast.”

“A _dragon_?” Merlin repeated incredulously. “That I find a little hard to believe.”

“Perhaps it was a baby dragon; a freshly hatched one,” commented Gwen, making a face of obvious distaste. “Or a really big lizard.”

“It could have been a _very_ young wyvern, too,” Merlin suggested, snickering.

“Whatever it was, Sir Yvain killed it,” said Gaius. “And all tales told about him agree that he used to have a lion in his father’s fortress; a male one that followed his every step like a faithful dog.”

“That part is true,” Geoffrey de Monmouth assured them. “I saw the lion with my own eyes when I accompanied King Uther to Urien’s castle. Sir Yvain went on a series of adventures with that lion, too, helping one lady after another, which made him the subject of many songs. Also, with the help of the lion, he slew the giant Harpin of the Bleak Mountains. He’s a brave man and a valiant knight; Camelot will benefit from his bravery greatly.”

Merlin had his doubts about the wisdom of inviting someone who was already a living legend to the court of a king who was presently unable to fulfil his duties and had to rely on the help of an old ally and his young, inexperienced son, but he knew better than to voice his doubts. As usual, Arthur would simply dismiss his worries.

The horn at the _Porta Speciosa_ sounded again, interrupting Merlin’s worried thoughts, followed by the announcement:

“Sir Girflet of Conduel, son of Lord Doon!”

The knight who came in, clad in rich, dark brocade, with his long tresses framing his handsome face like dark flames, seemed almost impossibly young and way too slender to bear the weight of a knight’s armour. Nonetheless, even Merlin had heard of him. He was the cousin of Sir Bedivere and Lucan, Uther’s wine steward; he was the same age as Arthur and had been knighted with the Crown Prince. He had returned to Conduel just before Merlin had come to Camelot, to help his father protect their lands against the bandit chieftain Hengist, but had come as soon as Arthur’s call had reached him.

There were many more horn-calls and announcements, welcoming Sir Tristan of Cornwall with his companion Sir Dinadan, Sir Lamorak of Gales, Sir Agloval, Sir Sagremor and others. Merlin simply lost count after a while and only hoped that – given enough time – he would be able to mark all those new faces and learn all those new names. Perhaps Master Geoffrey, who seemed to know everyone (at least by reputation), would be able to provide some help with that. In any case, the high table had filled up nicely, leaving only a few empty seats on Sir Leon’s side.

Like everyone else in the Great Hall, Merlin knew to whom those places belonged. The noble guests, on the other hand, did not, and it was a calculated risk on Arthur’s part to have his new knights, the ones dubbed in defiance of the Code of Camelot, sitting at the same table as the highest-born, most respectable noblemen in several countries. He did it deliberately; as he had declared, if the nobly-born knights were not willing to share table and company with Camelot’s rescuers, he was not willing to tolerate them in Camelot. Tonight’s feast was planned as a challenge for them to show their true colours.

Sir Lucan, the wine steward, offered the doorkeeper a cup of wine to ease his throat. Morris accepted it gratefully; then the horn was blown again, and he called out.

“Sir Gwaine of Lothian!”

In walked Gwaine, in his usual rough linen tunic and leather jerkin, with the usual swagger in his step. He almost danced up the Great Hall, flashing everyone delightful grins along his way, and sketched a somewhat exaggerated bow in Arthur’s direction before taking his place. Arthur looked at him solemnly. Only someone who knew him as well as Merlin did could detect the tiny, amused smile hiding in the corner of the Crown Prince’s mouth. Arthur liked Gwaine a lot, despite the man’s outrageous manners; or perhaps because of his refreshingly disrespectful manners.

The noble guests at the high table did their best _not_ to look shocked – and failed miserably. Especially Sir Gaheris and his brothers seemed thunderstruck, for reasons Merlin couldn’t quite understand. After all, Gwaine was on his best behaviour tonight.

Apparently, the nobles had a different concept of _best behaviour_.

The horn sounded again, and Morris was announcing Lancelot now, naming him after the small village he originated from.

“Sir Lancelot of Benwick!”

Unlike Gwaine, Lancelot walked up to the high table solemnly, with his head held proudly high. He, too, had been dressed up handsomely for the feast (Merlin suspected Gwen’s hand in it), and looked really good in his bag-sleeved, dark green cotehardie, the open neck of which revealed the ancient bronze coin which he always wore around his neck on a thin leather thong. He bowed towards Arthur respectfully and took his place at the table, refusing to look at anyone. He had grown out his hair again, and Merlin was surprised how young that made him appear.

Finally, there was only one seat at the high table left, and Morris announced the last knight.

“Sir Elyan of Camelot!” – for what else could he have said about the blacksmith’s son?

Elyan came in with long, purposeful strides, looking strikingly handsome in his deep red brocade cotehardie, which emphasized the rich, warm colour of his dark skin. In fact, his skin was a great deal darker than Gwen’s, Merlin realized for the first time, and his features were sharper, more refined, too. For all that they were siblings, there was very little likeness between the two of them, and Elyan was definitely the better-looking one. He gave his sister a tight, apologetic smile – which Gwen answered with an unhappy scowl – and bent his knee to Arthur before taking the seat reserved for him.

For a moment, there was eerie silence in the Great Hall, tension palpable in the air. Everyone was waiting with bated breath for the storm to break loose… only it never happened. The noble guests, while eyeing Arthur’s newly-dubbed knights with various degrees of suspicion, wisely chose to remain silent. After the first few, endless moments, Sir Lucan, the wine steward, picked up the heavy pitcher and began to walk around the high table, filling the cups of all the lords and the Lady Cunneware, while his brother, Sir Bedivere, filled the Royal Chalice, standing in front of Arthur in the King’s absence.

It was an amazing piece of artwork: a cup made from red agate that had been ornately mounted on a golden column, with two golden handles in the form of serpents, and an indistinct inscription on its base, believed to have been written with runes of the Old Tongue that no-one understood any longer (or so people thought). The base was also of stone, with a gold rim, and set with two emeralds and a number of pearls. The cup was an ancient family heirloom only the Kings of Camelot were allowed to drink from – starting with the times of the Fallen Kings who had once ruled the realm from Tintagel Castle that had long since fallen to ruin. The same castle where the Round Table had stood.

Arthur rose from his seat, grabbing the cup with both hands and raising it, so that all could see it.

“Friends and allies from distant lands, I thank thee for having come to the aid of Camelot in its hour of need,” he intoned. “Be welcome and let us share food and wine as has been custom since the olden days. Let us return Camelot to its former glory.”

He took a drink from the cup and sat again, giving thus the sign for the rest of the court to take their places at the lower tables and for the servants to begin serving the dishes.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
At the end of the meal, Arthur led the visiting knights through the back door to another room. It wasn’t a particularly large one, but was most beautifully furnished with artfully carved stone window-frames, stained glass window-panes, an arched ceiling that had been wrought in the likeness of palm leaves crossing each other, tapestries hanging from the walls between the slender stone pillars and a tiled floor, depicting ancient legends. In any case, the octagonal room was large enough to take in the Round Table that had been secretly transported from the ruined Tintagel Castle to Camelot, sufficiently cleaned and polished, and arranged so that the King’s Seat would face the door leading to the Great Hall.

Merlin, who had trailed in after Arthur without invitation, could now have his first real look at the legendary Table. It was made of dark, polished wood so ancient that it had nearly become petrified with age. Aside from the King and his future Queen, fifty knights could be seated at it, and the same number of masterfully carved, high-backed chairs stood around it. There were short inscriptions in the Old Tongue at each place, symbolizing the values a true knight ought to make the keystone of his very life. 

The visiting nobles admired it with the same awe Merlin did, for the Round Table was a connection to Albion’s past. A connection most of them had thought lost beyond retrieval.

“My lords,” said Arthur quietly but forcefully, “Camelot has come to a point where much of what we long held for granted may get lost in the upcoming storm that we shall have to face, soon. For that very reason I believe that we need to rediscover some things of our distant past that have been lost for too long. This table belonged to the ancient Kings of Camelot and had stood, forgotten, in the Great Hall of Tintagel Castle ever since their fall. I have ordered it to be brought to Camelot, as it seems fitting that we revive one of our most sacred traditions and re-establish the Knights of Camelot as they were meant to be.”

“What do you mean by that, sire?” asked Sir Leon, one of the very few who knew exactly what Arthur meant. Which was why _he_ had been entrusted with the task of asking that particular question.

“A round table affords no one man more importance than any other,” Arthur replied. “The Knights of Camelot, bound together by the ties of their solemn oath and of a powerful brotherhood, believed in equality in all things, regardless of differences in age, birth, wealth or rank. They lived to fight with honour for justice, freedom and all that is good. To protect the King; and to protect the people, should there be no King any more. That is the tradition I wish to revive, for Camelot will need such a tradition, soon. That is the brotherhood I offer you all, if you will accept. Right now, the Round Table has only five knights; four that I have hand-picked, based on their strength, loyalty, bravery and personal honour, and one that has always been at my side. I hope one day all these seats around the Table will be taken. Are there any of you who will join us, for the love of Camelot?”

The visiting nobles were very silent while Sir Leon, Lancelot, Gwaine, Perceval and Elyan took their pre-assigned seats; leaving one chair empty on either side of Arthur. Sir Kay was the first one to move.

“I don’t know much about this new world you seem so intent on building,” he said, his voice smooth and gentle, “but we share the same blood through your mother, the late Queen Ygraine, and so I feel honour-bound to join you.”

“Thank you, cousin,” Arthur gestured him to take the empty seat on his right. It had been reserved for the family, just as the one on his left had been reserved for his future Queen. He was grateful that in Kay the shared blood apparently ran deep enough to overcome their past differences. Kay nodded, smiled briefly and took the proffered seat, not knowing yet that this would remain his place for the rest of his life.

Now that the ice had been broken, young Sir Bors stepped forth boldly. He had just been knighted a few days earlier and was eager to prove himself.

“My brother has fought alongside you many times, sire,” he said, “and I know he would die for you willingly. I shall gladly do the same, if you accept me.”

Arthur grinned at him in a friendly manner. “Welcome to the Round Table, Sir Bors. If you are half the man your brother is, we could not ask for a better knight.”

Sir Bors flashed him a happy grin, bowed and took the seat next to his brother. Now Sir Geraint extracted himself from the crowd, letting go of his wife’s hand, and bowed to the Crown Prince deeply.

“I have served you and Camelot since I was old enough to pick up a sword,” he said. “I would wish to continue that service till the sword falls out of my hand; be it by death or by old age. Where you lead, I shall follow.”

“And I gladly welcome you to our brotherhood, Sir Geraint,” said Arthur, waving the tall, grave, sandy-haired knight to sit next to Sir Kay. “Your bravery and loyalty have always been exemplary. I hope that one day your brother will recover enough to join our ranks as well.”

“So do I, sire,” answered Sir Geraint simply and sat.

The next one to move was Sir Girflet, which surprised no-one. After all, he had once been the closest thing Arthur ever had to a friend.

“I have come to support you,” he said bluntly. “If the brotherhood of the Round Table is the best way to give you that support, then I wish to join, too.” He gave Sir Bedivere, who was lingering in the background, a challenging look. “What about you, cousin? Want to become a knight again?”

“I wish I could,” replied Sir Bedivere with a despondent sigh. “But I doubt that our Prince Regent could use a man with a stiff leg in a fight.”

“Perhaps not in a fight on horseback; but you can still wield a sword masterfully, and your heart is still that of a true knight of Camelot,” said Arthur. “Join us, Sir Bedivere, and I shall make you the constable of the Citadel; to care for its defence when I cannot be here.”

“I am too young for such responsibility!” Bedivere tried to protest, but Arthur silenced him with a sardonically raised eyebrow.

“You are older than I am, and people expect me to rule the whole realm,” he pointed out.

To that, Sir Bedivere had nothing to answer, and so he took his place at the Round Table, together with his cousin _and_ his brother.

One by one, the other knights all chose to join the brotherhood of the Round Table and to pledge their fealty to Prince Arthur. And while half the seats still stood empty, Arthur felt new hope budding in his heart. Perhaps he would be able to rebuild Camelot and to protect the realm, after all.

“I thank you all for your willingness to support and protect Camelot in its greatest need,” he said. “on the morrow, we shall present the new Knights of Camelot to the people in the inner courtyard. May the sight give them new hope – God knows we all need it.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Despite the toll the long journey from Ealdor to Camelot had taken on her, and the bone-deep weariness caused by the knowledge that Ealdor was no more, Hunith found that sleep was eluding her. Her left arm, the one that had been miraculously healed by her son, still ached a little – although it was bearable now, and at least the bones were hale again – and Gaius’ ointments and poultices could do little to ease the hurt of the numerous cuts and bruises she had received during the destruction of her home. She knew those kinds of injuries; they healed slowly. She was prepared to endure that.

It was the invisible wound, caused by the loss of the only home she had ever known, that hurt even more.

Aside from the few years spent in Camelot, so that she could learn the way of the healing herbs and their many uses from her uncle, she had always lived in Ealdor. Just like her mother and her grandmother and all their mothers had before. Six consecutive generations (that she knew of) had lived in that little cottage, the one that had been burned to the ground by those lawless men, together with her meagre possessions and the invaluable riches of memories those modest walls had held.

She felt empty. Lost. Indescribably alone, in spite of the fact that she had been one of the lucky ones: she still had her family, safe and unhurt, in Camelot. She could count on their help and on their loving care. Especially on that of her son.

But she no longer had her home.

She pulled the soft, wide woollen shawl tighter around her to keep the chill of the night at bay. The shawl, just like the plain white nightshift she was wearing, had originally belonged to Mistress Alice; and so did the fleecy slippers keeping her feet warm. She had found them in the clothes chest, carefully packed away with small sacks of dried lavender flowers to keep out the moths. 

At first, she had been reluctant to touch another woman’s personal belongings, but her own clothes needed washing and were probably beyond repair anyway. So she took Mistress Alice’s things, apologizing to the older woman in thought and promising to wash them, press them and pack them away in a flawless state, as soon as she could replace her own ruined and lost garments.

She did not want to rely on Merlin, to take money from him – she had been fending for herself all her life – but her son had been right. She needed at least two sets of clothes, even if she managed to patch up the ones she had been wearing when she fled Ealdor. There was simply no way around it. The thought of how many things she would need to get her life back together made her very unhappy. Her family had always been poor, but at least her home had provided her with the means of daily life: small tools that were needed in the garden, a spindle and a loom to make clothes for herself and her son, pots in which to cook, basic food items in the pantry for daily use, soap, bedlinens… so many things, most of which she had inherited from the previous generations. Things that had simply always been there.

Now she had nothing left. She could not even call a comb her own. She was living in another woman’s home – even though it technically belonged to her uncle now – wearing another woman’s clothes (that were, by the way, too short for her), using another woman’s pots and even her hairbrush… she felt like a leech. And she ached all over.

In the afternoon, she had drawn herself a bath in the small wash-house in the garden and washed her clothes – wishing Merlin could have been there to heat up the water within moments as was his wont. She did not like her son using his magic, for fear that he might be caught, but she had to admit that having Merlin take care of the hot water would have been a relief. It would have spared her the splitting of wood that was particularly tiresome in her present condition.

But Merlin was kept in the Citadel by Prince Arthur all day, so she had to take care of her bath and washing alone. It was not as if she was not used to it; that was what she had done in the last three years, after all. But she was so very tired right now. And yet she could find no rest.

In the early evening, that lovely young girl who had accompanied Merlin during his visit to Ealdor two years ago – Gwen, if she remembered her name right; she had been the blacksmith’s daughter – had come down from the Citadel and brought her some food. It was better than she had expected to have for a long time to come: leftovers from the royal kitchens, the girl had explained. Just some soup, thickened with breadcrumbs, with a cooked chicken leg or two in it, half a loaf of almost-fresh bread and a piece of hard cheese, really; but more than everyone in Ealdor had seen for a while. They had lived on mushrooms, wild berries and ground tree bark near the end.

She could not find it in her heart to eat the whole feast alone. She had put away a good part of it, intending to ask her neighbours in the morrow if they wanted it; she was sure they would. The lower town seemed to have suffered from the food shortage a great deal more than the Citadel had, and she knew she could hope to get more food from the royal kitchens. Her son would never let her suffer from the lack of the basic necessities of life. Not if it was within his powers to help. He was such a good, dear boy. Such a bright light in her life.

Her thoughts wandered back to the boy’s father, whom she had smuggled out of Camelot at Gaius’ request. She had not known who – or _what_ – Balinor was, not back then. She had only assumed he must have had something to do with magic, or else he would not have had to flee Camelot. But he had been soft-spoken and courteous and grateful… and darkly handsome, so that she had lost her heart to him at once.

For a while, they had been very happy. Led a modest life in the little cottage of her parents, Balinor helping her in the garden and working for the blacksmith; he had a way with iron, the blacksmith had said approvingly. But Uther could not leave them alone. He had sent his knights after Balinor, even deep into a foreign kingdom, and Balinor, not wanting to endanger her, had left.

She had not even found the chance to tell him that she was with child. _His_ child.

She had only begun to suspect that he must have been more than a mere sorcerer after Merlin’s birth. Having your babe move around small items without actually touching them and make them dance in the air like a swarm of fireflies _could_ make you suspicious about the true nature of said babe’s father. So she had asked Gaius and learned the truth. But they had both agreed _not_ to tell Merlin about it. The boy was better off not knowing – it had been hard enough for him to keep his untrained powers under control.

Of course, Merlin _had_ learned the truth eventually. In the end, it was inevitable; and she was grateful that her son at least got the chance to meet the father he had always longed for. Even if they had only been given a short time. Merlin had told her everything, and it saddened her to know that a great and noble man like Balinor had had to spend long, lonely years in a cave – like some wild animal. And all because he had been born with a power that frightened a King.

It also grieved her that she would never see him again. He had been _the one_ for her. No-one else would do. Besides, even though his death had set her free, she was too old now to begin her life anew, even if she wanted. Which she did _not_. She had been well content with her simple life in Ealdor, living with her memories, waiting for news about her son in patient, loving concern. It had been enough to know him in Gaius’ care, in the relative safety of a fortified town. Even if it was Uther’s town; sometimes hiding in plain sight was the best thing one could do.

That did not mean she didn’t worry about him all the time. She did. Camelot was a dangerous place for a warlock, and Merlin could not simply stop using magic, she had long realized that. Merlin _was_ magic, born with the inherited powers of his father, the last of the Dragonlords; powers that would grow too strong one day to remain hidden.

He had already changed in the few years spent apart from her. He seemed the same kind, good-hearted person that he had always been, but his eyes were haunted now, like the eyes of men who had seen too much. He _had_ seen too much in the recent years; had probably done things he regretted. He had not spoken about those things, but for a mother with eyes to see, the signs were clear enough.

He had always been slim like a twig, but he had grown almost painfully thin recently; his face was pale and gaunt, his elfin ears seeming larger than ever, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. Clearly, his innocence had been marred in Camelot, in ways Hunith couldn’t even begin to guess – and did not truly want to know. But it hurt her to see her precious, wonderful son like this; even though she knew that it was the order of things for boys to grow up and become men. And that could not happen without the loss of innocence.

That did not make her hurt any less. For she could see that he was hurting, too. And she did not know how to help him.

She stiffened as she sat on the edge of the bed. There was a noise at the front door. Someone was trying to move the latch from the outside; to open the door. A single person, most likely, and not a particularly strong or an armed one, or else they would simply break the door down. Whoever they were, they probably wanted a place to sleep… or hoped to find something to eat. Not so surprising in a town that had just recently been besieged.

Hunith grabbed the axe that was standing in the corner next to the fireplace, just in case; she found the small stump of a candle that she had used before going to bed and touched it to the still smouldering embers. Then she walked to the door and flung it wide open, holding up the candle to the face of her uninvited visitor.

“What do you want?” she asked calmly.

The light revealed the thief – for what else could he have been? – to be a young man roughly of Merlin’s age, with a shock of brown hair that looked like a bird’s nest… a particularly untidy one. Big, round, frightened blue eyes stared at her from a pale, bearded face that might have been rounded once but had became hollow due to hunger and other sorts of duress. He was very thin, too, with sinewy arms and a long neck, but his hands were large and strong, clearly used to regular work. He wore all the signs of a life spent with hard labour and on little food.

Hunith shook her head in compassion. This could have been Merlin, had he been less fortunate – or any other lad from Ealdor. Clearly, the young man was starving and desperate, but he did not look malevolent… or like someone prone to violence.

“You’d better come in, lad,” she said, not unkindly. “It’s well past the curfew, and you could get in trouble, should the patrols find you on the streets.”

The young man, still in obvious shock, obeyed without a word. Hunith ushered him to the table and made him sit before she bolted the door from the inside again. Then she, too, sat down on the opposite side of the table.

“What is your name?” she asked, keeping her voice low and calm. The last thing she wanted was to startle him; to make him bolt in panic.

The young man swallowed several times before he could answer.

“W… William,” he finally muttered. Hunith nodded.

“Where are you from, William?” she continued her patient interrogation.

“D… Daria,” he answered, licking his parching lips. His voice sounded smoother, more stable now. “It is… _was_ … one of the outlying villages… before Cenred’s men burned it to the ground.”

Again, Hunith nodded in sad understanding. She had heard too many similar stories since the war had started.

“Your family?” she asked gently.

“Gone,” replied William dully. “My father… he tried to protect our farm… we were farmers, you see, grew rye and turnips and kept some sheep… they slew him on his own doorstep. My mother, she was a cheese-maker… she burned to death while trying to get our flock to safety. I… I wasn’t even there to help them…”

“And what good would it have done if you _had been_ there?” asked Hunith kindly. “Those warriors were made invincible by magic – not even the Knights of Camelot could do anything against them; not until the enchantment was broken. Had you been there, you’d have been killed, just like the rest of your family.”

“And what do I still have to live for?” he returned bitterly. “I’ve got no home, no family… just the clothes on my body.” He gestured at his rough canvas shirt and breeches.

“Many have suffered the same fate,” said Hunith quietly. “I, too, have lost my home – this is the house of an old friend, and I only stay here on his sufferance until I can return to my village, should it ever be rebuilt. Although I am fortunate enough to still have my family, and that is all that truly matters.”

The young man nodded, his eyes tearing up a little. “I wish I could still have my mother, too,” he admitted. Hunith patted his hand.

“Why have you come to Camelot?” she asked. “Do you have friends here?”

William shook his head. “No; but where else could I have gone? All the other villages in the neighbourhood have been destroyed, and the survivors are all coming here, hoping to find work… perhaps to get some food. A year and a half ago, I did Prince Arthur a favour. No-one was supposed to know, and I kept my promise and my mouth shut. But he is a generous man, so I hoped he would help me now that I am in need,” he admitted.

Hunith frowned a little. She would have expected the same of the young Prince. Arthur was a generous man, generous to a fault. So what had happened?

“He refused to help you?” she asked in surprise. William laughed bitterly.

“I couldn’t even get close to the Citadel. The patrols are everywhere, and they are quick to beat you up or throw you in the dungeons if they find you in places where you are not supposed to be. I tried to find the blacksmith’s daughter, she would have helped me if she could; but there’s a new blacksmith living in her house now, a young one I’ve never seen before… I didn’t dare to ask him any questions.”

“It’s her brother,” said Hunith, “but he wouldn’t know you anyway. So you chose to break into this house then?”

William gave her a pitiful look.

“Everyone said it was abandoned. I just wanted to sleep… perhaps find some clothes… if I was very lucky, even some food… I know it’s not right, but I had no-one to turn to…”

“I doubt you could find here any fitting clothes; this used to be the house of an old herb-mistress who lived here alone. But food I can offer you,” Hunith rose from her chair and went to rekindle the fire and heat up the soup she had put to one side in the afternoon. “It isn’t much, but it’s better than nothing. Then, after you have eaten, we’ll find you some blankets. There’s only one bed, and I’m too old to sleep on the floor any more, but I’m sure we can make you a decent bedroll.”

William stared at her in open-mouthed awe.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “I’ve tried to break into your house, to steal from you… and you are about to feed me and to take me in for the night? Why?”

“I have a son about the same age as you,” Hunith poured the now warm soup into a small bowl - it really wasn’t that much - and gave it to him, with a chunk of the bread that she had left in the evening. “Should he ever suffer the same fate, I hope he’d find someone to take him in, too.”

“But won’t your son mind that you gave shelter to a stranger… to a thief?” asked William uncertainly, clearly not wanting her to get in trouble on his behalf. He must have been a good, decent lad.

“If you truly did Prince Arthur a favour, then no, he won’t mind at all,” she said, smiling. “And you’re not a stranger; not if you know Gwen. You can work it out among yourselves in a day or two. Now, eat your soup before it gets cold again, and then have some rest. Maybe I’ll find some sleep, too, now that I’m no longer alone in a strange house.”

William still did not look entirely sure about the whole affair, but the hunger and the mouth-watering scent of the hot soup decided for him. He picked up the spoon and began to eat, slowly, almost reverently, relishing every mouthful after having gone on an empty stomach for so long.

Hunith sat on the other side of the table and watched him eat. The poor lad, he obviously had not eaten for quite a while. And he had no-one left. Her own loss seemed a lot less significant at once, and she mentally chastised herself for having wallowed in misery all afternoon. She was alive and relatively unhurt, she had Merlin, and she had Gaius, too. Compared with a great many people fleeing from the villages, she had been truly fortunate.

Perhaps, if Gaius did not mind, she could keep young William with her for a while. It would be safer to have a man in the house, and Merlin could not, _would_ not leave Prince Arthur’s side. She understood that. She _accepted_ that. Still, having someone around to mother would be nice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the Middle Ages, time was usually counted starting with sunrise, generally around 6 o’clock. So, by general consensus, the third hour would be 9 o’clock and and the fourth hour would be 10 o’clock, which was the time when the new Knights of Camelot were presented to the people.
> 
>  _Horse bread_ was the lowest quality medieval bread, made of ground beans (fava beans) and wheat or rye. Usually, it was fed to horses, but really poor people ate it, too, not being able to afford the better sorts.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 03 – ISELDIR'S PROPHECY**

Next morning, the heralds were out on the streets of Camelot in the first hour after sunrise. At every corner they blew their fanfares, announcing in joyous voices that the ranks of the Knights of Camelot had been filled up, and that the new protectors of town and realm would be presented in the fourth hour, in the inner courtyard of the Citadel. Everyone who desired to see them and greet them was welcome to do so, the heralds added, before moving on to repeat the same announcement at the next corner.

The people of Camelot, in much need of hope and of some harmless entertainment, had already started gathering around the courtyard in the third hour. They were standing on walls and rooftops, sitting in empty window-frames, the younger ones even perching in the trees like birds. All wanted to witness the ceremony in which the new knights would be acknowledged by the King… or by the Crown Prince, whichever the case might be.

No-one could tell if King Uther would be able to attend the ceremony. His brief appearance after weeks of absence on the previous day had given the people hope. He might have been a heavy-handed ruler, at times even unnecessarily cruel (whenever the slightest possibility of magic was involved), but he symbolized stability and safety. His heir, though beloved by the folk and a renowned warrior, was as yet unproven as a ruler. People felt safer with Uther present.

Sometimes Merlin had the feeling that _Arthur_ felt safer with his father present, too.

When the bells finally signalled the fourth hour, the courtyard was so full there was no room left for a needle to be dropped. Only in the middle, surrounded by the palace guards, was an empty, rectangular area: where the new knights would stand. The servants of the castle were pushing and shoving each other at the windows to get a better position, too. They might have seen the new knights on the previous day, but the presentation was a festive affair – no-one wanted to miss a moment of it.

The bells went silent, and now the heralds appeared on the crenellated walls with their fanfares, blowing a triumphant melody. The door to the balcony opened, and the crowd made joyous noises, seeing their King appear, flanked by Prince Arthur on one side and by Sir Ector, whom many of the older people still remembered, on the other.

From such a considerable distance, Uther did not look any different than he had for years. He stood proudly, clad in a deep purple velvet surcoat over his mail shirt and red tunic, the red cape of the Knights of Camelot thrown over one shoulder, the wide golden band of his crown sitting safely upon his brow. Only from close proximity could one see the deepened lines around his mouth, the shadows under his reddened eyes and that most of his hair had turned grey. Only those who had seen him in the recent weeks knew that he had become an old man, broken by the loss of a daughter he had never acknowledged.

Yes, Uther Pendragon was a broken man who had lost all joy in life. But he was also the King of Camelot still, and still conscious about his duties towards his realm and his subjects. Thus he had collected what was left of his iron will, the strength that had held the realm together for more than twenty years, to give the people of his realm hope one more time. The mask of a strong ruler firmly in place to hide the devastation he felt, he managed to sound as confident and powerful as ever.

“People of Camelot,” he began, his voice carrying easily over the courtyard. “As you all know, this kingdom was mired in chaos in recent times, suffering ferocious attacks from the black sorceress Morgause, with the support of our old enemy, King Cenred. With the people’s help, her foul magic was driven from the realm, and Cenred is dead, so he can no longer threaten us.”

He paused, letting the people cheer and shout with joy for a moment. Then he raised a gloved hand, and the crowd became silent to listen to his words.

“The Knights of Camelot made great sacrifices to free us all from Morgause’s sorcery,” he continued. “Many of them did not survive; they will be remembered as long as these walls stand. But we had to fill up the ranks left empty by their sacrifice – and we did. People of Camelot – I give you your new protectors!”

He made a sign. The heralds sounded their fanfares again. The great gate of the castle was opened, and out marched the Knights of Camelot, in their identical mail shirts and red capes, bearing the image of the gold dragon, with their long swords drawn in salute. Led by Sir Leon, who now officially bore the title of the First Knight, they took up the usual parade formation in the empty quadrant in the middle of the courtyard and held their swords with both hands before their faces, greeting the King.

It was a sight that lifted the heart of everyone – and the people cheered again. Yes, times had been hard recently, but order seemed to have returned to Camelot; and that made them feel safe.

When the crowd calmed down a little, Geoffrey de Monmouth was called forth to introduce the new knights to the people whom they had sworn to protect, one by one. A squire carried around the Seal of Nobility of each and every one, so that all present could see it. Fortunately, Arthur’s recently-dubbed knights no longer counted as _new_ ones; otherwise the celebration might have ended in a spectacular scandal.

“I’m still surprised that Uther hasn’t spotted them yet,” commented Merlin, as quietly as he could with the crowd jubilating outside. “At least he ought to have recognized Lancelot and Gwaine. He knows them well, and neither of them is easy to overlook.”

But Gaius just shook his head in sorrow. “Merlin, the King’s mind no longer works as sharply as it used to. I gave him a draught that helped him overcome his heavy melancholy for as long as he was needed in public, but once its effect wears off, he’ll become the broken shell of a man that we’ve known for the last few weeks. Ever since Morgana disappeared again.”

“Is there truly nothing you can do to help him?” asked Merlin. “Arthur’s not ready to take up the sceptre yet.”

“Ready or not, he will _have_ to accept the sceptre,” said Gaius grimly. “He’ll be officially enthroned as the Prince Regent tonight. Let’s hope Sir Ector will be able to help him with the burden of kingship.”

“We cannot have Sir Ector reign in Uther’s name forever,” argued Merlin. “We need the King.”

“We do,” Gaius agreed, “but he’s heartbroken, and that’s one malady my remedies cannot cure. I fear we shall lose him to grief, soon, unless…”

“Unless?” Merlin pressed.

“Unless something happens; something drastic enough to break through his shock and shake him awake.”

“Something that would shock him even more than Morgana’s betrayal?” asked Merlin with a nervous smile. “Are you sure that Camelot would be able to deal with a crisis of _that_ magnitude?”

“It doesn’t have to be the end of the world,” said Gaius soothingly.

Merlin laughed, but it was a laugh without true mirth. “And when did we last have a crisis any smaller than famine, pestilence or the end of the world, including the rising of the dead?” he asked.

Gaius stared at him in mild shock for a moment.

“You know,” he then replied tiredly, “I’m afraid that you’re right. Now, why don’t you go to see if Prince Arthur has need of you this morning? If not, you could spend some time with Hunith; she promised to visit me and help me cut my herbs.”

Merlin swallowed the reminder that _if_ he appeared in Arthur’s field of view at all, the Crown Prince would undoubtedly find something for him to do. Something completely unnecessary, just to hassle him. So he didn’t say or ask anything. Instead, he went directly to Gaius’ chambers, knowing that if Arthur _truly_ needed him, that would be the first place he would send someone to look for him, and spent the next two hours in the delightful company of his mother, cutting herbs, making poultices, bottling finished draughts and the likes – entirely without the use of any magic.

Until around midday a frightened young page came running and told him that Prince Arthur wanted him in his chambers at once… or rather the day before yesterday. Hunith became worried hearing that, but Merlin just laughed, sent the trembling page on his way and went to see Arthur without hurry. He knew that if it had been something of true importance – or had Arthur been really angry with him – his royal pratliness would have come in person, hammering on the door with his fists.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Now that they had game for a proper feast, thanks to the skill of Sir Ector’s huntsmen, Arthur’s enthronement as the Prince Regent could be celebrated with due flourish. Frantic activity broke out in the kitchens, while the leftovers from the previous evening, meagre as they were, were handed down to the servants and their families. They were still much better than living on _horse bread_ and thin gruel like the people in the lower town had to do.

Thanks to his friendship with the kitchen maids, Merlin could arrange that a little of the food would go to his mother. He might have done it much easier through Gwen, due to her newly won authority within the royal household, but for some reason he felt a strange reluctance to ask Gwen any favours lately. He didn’t know why, and that, too, irritated him.

Sometimes he wished he could still consult Kilgarrah, like in old times, when the Great Dragon had still been imprisoned under the castle. The obfuscating creature might have spoken in riddles, infuriatingly so, but Merlin had always left him having learned something new. Something useful…even if the usefulness of it only became clear later. Much later. Sometimes too late. Right now, he no longer had such a source of old knowledge, and that made him feel terribly helpless at times.

Perhaps he would need to seek out other sources of knowledge. He could visit the Crystal Cave again. As dangerous as it was to see the future – even if only a _possible_ future – it was still preferable to not knowing at all. Gaius would probably disagree, but Merlin knew he could no longer afford the luxury of ignorance.

In the end, it all came down to this: he needed guidance. And while Gaius could help him with the pitfalls of daily life, due to all that he had seen and done in his long life, when it came to the future, he was every bit as clueless as Merlin himself. And the future didn’t seem very promising; not from Merlin’s vantage point. 

Morgana and Morgause were still out there somewhere, no doubt plotting their revenge against Camelot. They would find allies soon enough; more so if rumours about Uther’s ailing began to spread. There were enough embittered sorcerers in the neighbouring countries, fled from the Great Purge and probably eager to return. And there were land-hungry other kings, dukes and barons who would love to tear big chunks out of Camelot and its dominions, even if they could not hope to conquer the realm in its entirety.

And Merlin was of two minds about the new knights as well. Sure, they had taken the most solemn oath any knight could take, but still… they had not been there in Camelot’s worst hours. With the exception of Sir Bors, they were strangers. Their good names should have been enough to vouch for them, but Merlin preferred to see a man’s deeds before starting to trust him. Right now, the only ones he could trust unconditionally were Lancelot, Gwaine and Sir Leon. He even withheld his judgement about Elyan and Percival for the time being. Granted, they had fought on Arthur’s side in the last great battle, but they were still new. He still didn’t know them well enough.

“You worry too much, mate,” said Gwaine airily; he had come down to the training fields to watch Arthur spar with the new knights, and Merlin had promptly poured out his concerns to him.

“Well, _someone_ has to,” replied Merlin in exasperation. Gwaine shrugged.

“I think you’re chasing shadows. Why should any of the new knights have a hidden agenda? They already have the highest status a knight could wish for – even if they have to share it with the likes of me,” he added, laughing. “And it isn’t as if any of them could hope to challenge Arthur’s claim to the throne.”

“I wonder,” murmured Merlin, watching Sir Kay spar with Arthur. They were an even match; Arthur needed all his considerable skills to get the upper hand. Gwaine followed his look and laughed again.

“You’ve got a problem with _him_? He’s not of royal blood, even if he _is_ Arthur’s cousin.”

“Yeah; and he’s also the man whose father was killed by Uther,” Merlin pointed out.

“Really?” Gwaine, who had never heard that story, asked in surprise. “How did that happen? I mean, weren’t they related by marriage?”

“They were,” said Merlin. “Sir Tristan de Blois was the brother of Queen Ygraine. As you know, the Queen died in childbirth – and Sir Tristan blamed Uther for it.”

“Now, _that_ is foolish,” declared Gwaine. “How could Uther have caused her death, aside from making her pregnant in the first place?”

“Gaius says Sir Tristan was maddened by grief.” Merlin smoothly avoided any mention of the barrenness of the late Queen and of witchcraft having been involved in Arthur’s birth; it was not _his_ story to tell. “In any case, he came to Camelot and challenged Uther to a combat to the death. Uther accepted – and won. Before he died, though, Sir Tristan swore to come back one day and have his vengeance.”

“Yeah, sure,” Gwaine laughed. “Dying men babble a lot of rubbish.”

“Oh, he _did_ come back all right,” said Merlin grimly. “On the very night when Arthur was made Crown Prince of the realm, Sir Tristan – or rather his vengeful spirit, conjured back to unlife by the great sorceress Nimueh – rode into the Great Hall and challenged the Knights of Camelot to a fight to the death.”

Gwaine shook his head in bewilderment. “The strangest things happen in Camelot!”

“Yeah, they do,” Merlin agreed. “Sir Owain, and then Sir Pellinor accepted the challenge – and lost. Because, you see, mortal weapons cannot kill that which is already dead.”

“I remember you telling me something like that before,” said Gwaine dryly. “Though I also remember that you _did_ have a sword that could do the trick rather nicely. There was a dragon’s breath involved somehow, if I’m not mistaken.”

Merlin nodded. “It was the same sword; the best one Gwen’s father had ever forged. And, most conveniently, at that time there still was a dragon, the last of its kind, imprisoned in a cave under the castle.”

“And you just walked down to him and asked him nicely to breathe on that sword?” asked Gwaine, half-laughing and clearly not believing it.

“Basically… yes, that was what I did,” replied Merlin. “Dragons seem to be slightly obsessed with destiny and apparently, Arthur is destined to become the once and future King of legends; the one who will reunite Albion. Yeah, I know,” he added with a snort, seeing Gwaine’s dumbfounded expression. “That was _my_ first reaction, too. But that was three years ago, and I’ve grown used to the thought. There are days when I’m even tempted to believe it.”

Gwaine nodded. Despite all the jokes and banter, he, too, could see the promise of future greatness in the young Prince. That promise – aside from the need to help Merlin, whom he still considered his only friend – had inspired him to join Arthur’s cause.

“So, you gave Arthur the magic sword, so that he could slay his undead uncle?” he asked. Merlin grinned from ear to ear at that.

“Erm… not exactly. Uther knew Arthur could not win against the wraith, so he had Gaius drug Arthur with a very potent sleeping draught and picked up the sword to answer the challenge himself. So, practically, he killed Sir Kay’s father _twice_ ,” he added, the thought occurring to him for the first time.

Gwaine howled with laugher, tears of mirth running down his lean face. “Only in Camelot!” he gasped. “Only in Camelot can things like this happen!”

“You’re probably right,” allowed Merlin, still grinning like a loon himself. “Of course, the dragon was most displeased that I allowed _Uther_ to wield the sword he had burnished for Arthur alone.”

“As if you could have hindered the King in doing so,” commented Gwaine, still chuckling. Merlin shrugged.

“Well, dragons are not always reasonable; and this one had every reason to hate Uther. He’d spent twenty years in chains in that cave.”

“Are we, by any chance, speaking of the same dragon that nearly destroyed Camelot a year or so ago?” asked Gwaine shrewdly.

Merlin gave him a look of wide-eyed – and completely false – innocence.

“Why, I think it must have been the same one indeed,” he exclaimed. “He was the only one left, after all!”

“I wonder how he managed to escape from the dungeons,” said the knight thoughtfully. “I hear they are the most secure ones in all the isles.”

“He must have had some help,” answered Merlin solemnly; then he shot Gwaine a somewhat surprised glance. “You are taking all this in stride.”

Gwaine didn’t look at him, pretending to watch the sparring knights. “As I told you in the Fisher King’s castle: I’ve travelled a lot and seen many strange things. I’ve learned to see beyond the surface. I don’t know _what_ exactly you are, but I can feel that there’s a great deal more about you than what meets the eye.”

“It must remain hidden for a while yet,” said Merlin.

Gwaine still wasn’t looking at him. “I know. Don’t worry. First and foremost, you are my friend. I’d never do anything to harm you. Does anyone else know?”

Merlin sighed. “My mother and Gaius, of course… and Lancelot.”

“Lancelot?” Gwaine repeated in surprise. Merlin shrugged.

“He found out by accident. I’ve learned to be more careful since then.”

“That’s a good thing, considering the place you’ve chosen to live,” said the knight dryly. Merlin shook his head.

“It wasn’t my choice. According to the dragon, I was _meant_ to come here. It is _my_ destiny to protect Arthur and to help him fulfil his. To help him to become the greatest King these isles have ever known.”

“Well, good luck,” Gwaine snorted. “You’ll have your work cut out for you to make the Princess a proper King.” But his eyes were laughing, and Merlin knew it was only a joke. Gwaine, too, had come to value and respect Arthur in record time.

“If nothing else, the first step in the right direction will be taken tonight,” the young warlock said. “Tonight, Arthur will accept the Sceptre of Camelot… even if only temporarily.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The Great Hall of Camelot had been prepared fittingly for the festive event. Long trestle tables had been placed left and right of the _Porta Speciosa_ , decked out with the finest silver plates and tankards and forks from the royal buttery. The Knights of Camelot, as well as the few lesser lords and ladies still attending the court, were clad in their finest garments to honour the occasion.

With Morgana missing, there was no Lady of Camelot; most noblewomen had fled to the fortified manors of their families during the troubled times as well. Only two of them remained: the Lady Cunneware, Sir Geraint’s wife, tall, elegant, auburn-haired and imperious, and the Lady Enide, the sweet-faced, raven-haired daughter of the Count of Laluth, promised to Geraint’s brother, Sir Erec. The same Sir Erec who had lain at death’s door since having been wounded by the skeleton warriors.

Strengthened by another dose of Gaius’ draught, King Uther insisted on performing the ceremony in his royal person, as this was the only way to make it legally binding. Merlin had a strange feeling of _déjá vu_ as he saw Arthur kneel in front of his father, clad in deep burgundy red and with the princely crown glittering upon his brow. Perhaps his talk with Gwaine earlier on was influencing him, but the whole scene was eerily similar to the one on Arthur’s twenty-first birthday, when he had been crowned as the heir apparent.

Even the words were nearly the same ones that had been spoken just before the Black Knight had broken through one of the Hall’s beautiful, stained glass windows on his black horse.

“Do you solemnly swear to govern the people of this kingdom and its dominions according to the statutes, customs and laws laid down by your forebears?” Uther intoned the time-honoured question again; and Arthur answered as he had two years previously, his steady voice carrying all over the Great Hall.

“I do, sire.”

“Do you promise to exercise mercy and justice in your deeds and judgements?” Uther continued.

“I do, sire,” Arthur repeated. 

Uther took the Sceptre offered to him by Sir Ector and held it out to Arthur, asking the final question.

“And do you swear allegiance to Camelot, now and as long as you shall live?”

Arthur accepted the Sceptre, holding it in both hands as he took the oath for the second time in as many years.

“I, Arthur Pendragon, do pledge life and limb to your service and to the protection of the kingdom and its peoples.”

“Then you shall henceforth rule this kingdom as the Prince Regent, in your King’s name and in his stead, until the King sees fit to take the Sceptre in his own hand again,” announced Geoffrey de Monmouth in his capacity as the Master of Ceremonies.

Arthur rose from his knees and turned to the court, still holding the Sceptre with both hands. All knights, nobles and servants bowed deeply; the ladies curtseyed – then everyone began to applaud enthusiastically, in an eerie mirror image of the scene from two years earlier, when the Black Knight had made his dramatic entrance. Except that this time there was no Morgana standing on the King’s left… and Gwen, wearing the rich garment of a court lady rather than her usual simple clothes, was standing a little lonely between all fronts.

Merlin glanced at the window – that had since been replaced – involuntarily, as if expecting a great horse to break through it again. Instead, the heavy wings of the _Porta Speciosa_ were flung open, and in walked the last person Merlin had expected to see in Camelot… at least as long as Uther Pendragon was still King: Iseldir, the head of the Druids, who had kept the Cup of Life safe and used it to heal Sir Leon of his near-mortal wound.

Iseldir marched calmly up the long aisle between the trestle tables, until he reached the throne of the King. There he stopped and threw back the wide hood of his grey robe, revealing his long, serene, deeply lined face, with the long, silver-blond tresses framing loosely his high forehead. Without a word of greeting, he turned right to Arthur.

“I have come to you with a solemn warning, Arthur Pendragon, now that you have come into your own,” he said in a voice that was low yet so powerful that it had all people present shivering and Merlin could feel his own magic stir in response. “For you have taken that which does not belong to you; and as a result, Camelot – and other lands, too – will have to suffer greatly.”

“What kind of ill deed dare you accuse the Prince Regent of?” demanded Sir Ector, while Uther, still but a shadow of his former self, was staring at the Druid leader in glassy-eyed shock. Merlin wondered whether they had met before, during the Great Purge or even earlier, or if the King was just surprised that any Druid would have the audacity to walk into his own Hall and accuse of his son of any wrongdoing.

“Prince Arthur forced us, by threatening the life of a Druid child, to hand over the Cup of Life, which we have always guarded well,” answered Iseldir grimly. “He proved unable to do the same, and allowed the Cup to fall into the hands of the sorceress Morgause, who used it to wreak great evil… not in Camelot alone, but also in the lands that were ruled by King Cenred. War, famine and pestilence have come over us all because of a Pendragon – again.”

“You blame _me_?” asked the Prince incredulously, having overcome his first shock. “All I wanted was to have the Cup under safe guard!”

“And you failed miserably,” retorted the Druid, “bringing death and destruction upon us all. Now you have to make amends and undo some of the wrong that you have caused.”

“Or what?” asked Arthur, his natural arrogance creeping back into his voice. The Druid gave him a quelling look.

“The earth upon which the undead have walked must be healed, or it won’t be able to bear fruit ever again; not for several generations,” he declared. “Within the year, both Camelot and King Cenred’s realm will become graveyards, littered with the unburied dead, killed by hunger and terrible diseases.”

“You would curse all these people, just because I took the Cup from you?” Arthur stared at him, shocked to the bone again. The Druid shook his head.

“Oh no, this won’t be my doing – it is yours and your father’s. The old magic, the one that can’t be learned or taught because you are either born with it or you won’t ever have it, cannot be suppressed forever. If its natural flow is blocked, it will break to the surface in other places violently. The balance of the world was turned upside down when your father outlawed magic and started massacring all those who practiced it – and now you are experiencing the backlash.”

“Morgause couldn’t be strong enough to have caused all this death and destruction,” protested Arthur.

“You are right; she is not,” said the Druid. “But she is not alone – and _you_ gave her the means to unleash the living dead upon your own country, by letting the Cup fall into her hands. Which is why you must make amends.”

“I am already doing everything in my power to restore Camelot,” replied Arthur. “But I’m not like you; whatever ails the earth, I cannot heal it, so that it would feed us again.”

“No, you can’t,” agreed the Druid grimly. “Neither can I, nor any of my kind, not even the most powerful ones among us. The only way to heal the wounds caused by Morgause’s foul sorcery is to bring the Holy Grail to Camelot.”

“The _what_?” frowned Arthur. “What the hell is the Holy Grail?”

“You’ve got your ancient legends; listen to them,” answered the Druid. “You have unnumbered books in the royal library; study them. The answer will be there, for those with eyes to see. And then you must go and find it and bring it here. That is the only way for both realms to recover.”

He turned on his heels, his long robe of coarse wool whirling around him ready to leave. That, finally, broke King Uther’s enchantment – or whatever it had been that had kept him from acting before.

“Guards!” he yelled. “Seize him! Put him in chains and throw him into the deepest dungeon! He must not escape!”

But the Druid simply turned into grey smoke on the spot, and even that smoke quickly dispersed into thin air. In Merlin’s mind, however, a soundless voice delivered a final warning.

_The Cup is still your responsibility, Emrys. You have failed us once; you must not fail us again, or the price we all will have to pay will be a terrible one!_

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“So, what _is_ the Holy Grail, then?” demanded Arthur three days later, visiting Master Geoffrey in the library, where the court genealogist and Gaius had been studying books of ancient wisdom and legends of the most ridiculous origins. With the help of Merlin, whose eyes were younger and keener than theirs.

“Well,” Master Geoffrey said with a weary sigh, “apparently, the Grail is a golden platter, set with precious gems and pearls, from which the ancient Kings alone were allowed to eat… _or_ the chalice from which they drank the water of the Fountain of Youth.”

“Unless, of course, it is a magical stone that fell from the heavens and sustains life and provides food,” Gaius added wryly. 

“ _Or_ an emerald that broke free from the throne of the King of the Otherworld and can heal each and any wound,” supplied Merlin. “ _Or_ the mythical Horn of Plenty that King Ogrfan received from the Fairy kings and that has been missing since his death.”

“ _Or_ a magical cauldron, wrought by powerful ancient sorcerers that never runs out of food,” continued Geoffrey de Monmouth.

“In other worlds, sire, we cannot really tell,” finished Gaius, rather unnecessarily. 

“ _If_ it exists in the first place, that is,” commented Arthur grimly.

“Oh, I do believe it exists,” said Gaius. “The Druids do not jest about such things. If their leader took the risk to come here and deliver this warning in person, they must believe that it is, at least, possible to find this Grail – whatever it truly is.”

“But how are we supposed to find it if we don’t even know _what_ it is?” asked Arthur. “And even if we do find it, how can we use it to heal the wounds of the very earth?”

“There are a few elements that seem consistent across more than one source,” explained Geoffrey de Monmouth. “It seems that this Grail is being kept in some remote castle that can only be found by certain chosen persons. Extraordinary dangers appear to be surmounted in the Quest for that enchanted place filled with wonders. The Grail, whatever it is, sustains the castle with life, yet the land around it is desolate, and the King living in the castle is wounded and can only be healed if the chosen hero asks the right question; then the kingdom, too, will be healed from its enchantment.”

“It sounds a lot like the legend of the Fisher King,” commented Merlin thoughtfully. “Can it be that something got mixed up in those legends?”

“There are marked similarities,” agreed Master Geoffrey. “But the _Chronicles of Ancient Kings_ clearly states that the name of the Grail King is Anfortas; and, unlike the Fisher King, he is _not_ a sorcerer. How much of the old legends have leaked into each other, is hard to tell after all this time, of course. But my guess would be that the Grail Castle, if it indeed exists, must stand somewhere in the Perilous Lands. They are vast and uncharted, and many places there are enchanted or cursed. I cannot imagine any other realm where an entire kingdom could be hidden.”

“Oh no, not again!” Merlin groaned. “We nearly died the last time we went to the Perilous Lands!”

“Yes, but that happened because Morgana betrayed us to Morgause, who then sent Cenred’s men after us,” Arthur pointed out. Merlin gave him a wounded look.

“And what makes you think that anyone who takes on this Quest will _not_ be pursued?” he asked sarcastically. “Morgana and Morgause are still out there, and they won’t give up their plan of revenge so easily. In a lordless realm like Cenred’s they can grow strong again; and who knows what kind of allies they might still have?”

“I know,” replied Arthur grimly. “But that’s not the point, is it? The important question is: can we believe what the Druid said? That this Grail will be able to heal the wounds of the earth and make it fertile again?”

Master Geoffrey and Gaius exchanged thoughtful looks, both clearly waiting for the other one to give an answer. Finally, the court genealogist shrugged.

“I’m not the right person to ask about that, sire. I never dabbled in… in the arcane arts. Perhaps it’s a trap.”

“But _I have_ ,” said Gaius heavily. “And I know that the Druids are a peaceful people who would never set such a trap for anyone. Besides, he seemed in great concern. I believe that they, too, have come to the end of their rope; they cannot heal their lands any more than we can heal ours. Which, considering the knowledge and power they possess, is another good reason to worry.”

“But this Grail… isn’t it an item of powerful magic?” asked Arthur.

“It most likely is, sire,” agreed Gaius. “An item of _very_ old magic, I would add. Older than anything I’ve ever heard of.”

“Then how can we even consider bringing it to Camelot?” demanded the Prince. “We’d be breaking every law of the realm by doing so!”

“Perhaps,” said Gaius after a lengthy pause. “This is not an easy decision, I know. You’ll have to choose between upholding your father’s laws that condemn magic and the survival of the realm itself.”

Arthur nodded gloomily. He did not need to be told _that_. And yet, as Gaius had said, it was not an easy decision – albeit perhaps one that would bring a new order to Camelot, in due time.

“I wonder what my father would do,” he murmured. “A pity that I can’t ask him.”

“No, sire, you can’t,” Gaius sighed. “I warned him that it would have consequences if he took that draught twice, on the same day, but he insisted… and, to a certain extent, he was right. No-one can question your right to rule the realm as his Regent; not since he handed over the Sceptre to you with his own hand. It needed to be done.”

“And now he pays the price,” said Arthur bitterly. It hurt him to see his father in his current state. The once so proud and harsh warrior-king reduced to a broken shell, with the mindset of a frightened child.

“There’s always a price to pay when we interfere with the natural flow of things, be it by magic _or_ by science,” answered Gaius soberly. “I’m still hoping that he will recover, eventually – at least to the level of health he still had after the recapture of Camelot.”

“That still won’t make him strong enough to rule like he ruled before, though, will it?” 

_That_ wasn’t really a question, rather a last, valiant attempt on the young Prince’s part to cling to a hope already lost. Gaius hated to take that last shard from him, but leaving him with any illusions would have been dangerous. For Arthur, for Uther… for the whole of Camelot.

“No,” the old physician admitted sadly. “No, I don’t think so, sire. The Lady Morgana’s betrayal wounded him too deeply.”

Arthur’s only answer was a short, tense nod. He had known that already. He had just been unwilling to face the truth… until now. Merlin felt a pang of sympathetic pain, watching that young face close up and harden with acceptance. Arthur had always had so little time for himself; the life of a Crown Prince was always filled with duties. From this day on, though, he would be consumed by the needs of Camelot completely.

“Keep searching,” the Prince Regent ordered. “Try to find clues to where this Grail Castle might be… and what kind of question we ought to ask, once we are there.”

“ _We_?” Merlin echoed. “You’re not planning to go on this Quest yourself, are you? Gwaine or Lancelot or any of the knights can do it!”

“No, they can’t,” replied Arthur. “You heard the Druid: it is my fault that the Cup of Life fell into Morgause’s hands. It is I who has to make amends.”

“You can’t leave Camelot now!” protested Merlin. “You’re the King now, you’re needed _here_!”

“No, I’m not,” countered Arthur. “My father is still King; and if I must go, I have to go while he’s still alive and Sir Ector is still here to support him.”

“Are you sure you can trust him to rule not only in your name but also in a manner you’d like to have the realm ruled?” asked Merlin doubtfully. He had no reason to doubt Sir Ector, but the man was an old friend and a stout supporter of Uther’s; one could assume that they had similar opinions."

“I’m not leaving right away,” said Arthur, “and certainly not before assigning some counsellors to stand with Sir Ector and help him with important decisions. Counsellors, without whose consent he won’t be able to make any changes that would have a true impact on Camelot.”

“And who would those counsellors be, if I may ask, sire?” inquired Master Geoffrey.

Arthur flashed him a grim smile.

“Men who have proven their loyalty many times since my father ascended the throne,” he answered. “Men like yourself, Master Geoffrey; or like Gaius here. Men whom I can trust unconditionally.”

“But sire, we’re both old men, and while Geoffrey is at least from the lesser nobility, I’m as common as dirt myself,” Gaius reminded him. “The knights won’t take any orders from us; and neither would the lesser lords of the realm listen to us.”

“Sir Ector will take care of the lesser lords,” Arthur waved off his concern dismissively. “As for the knights, you won’t have to deal with them; that will be the privilege of Sir Leon. He’s more than capable of keeping them in harness; and he does respect you greatly.”

Gaius still looked more than a little doubtful, but he knew the Prince well enough to know that any further argument would be futile. Once Arthur Pendragon had made up his mind, there was no force great enough to turn him away from his chosen path.

Well, no _ordinary_ force; but Gaius really did not want Merlin to get involved in this.

“When are you leaving then, sire?” he asked.

“Not for another month or so,” replied Arthur. “The Druid gave me a year. I don’t know how long this quest may take, but I want to leave a stable realm behind. People will need some time to get used to being ruled by the Vice-Regent and his council, after all. And,” he added with a sideways glance at Merlin, “we’ll have to deal with the Cup of Life first… one way or another.”

Merlin nodded gloomily. He knew what Arthur wanted in exchange for giving up the Cup, at least temporarily, but he still hated the idea of putting Gaius in danger.

* *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Perhaps this is the time you’ve been waiting for all these years,” said Lancelot, responsible for the city-wide patrols on this particular night, while escorting him down to the lower town to see Hunith. “Perhaps you should tell Arthur the truth. He deserves to know it; and I don’t think he’d be anything like his father. He won’t order your execution for you… well, being _you_.”

“No; he just might kill me in a fit of temper with his bare hands for having lied to him all this time,” replied Merlin unhappily. Lancelot shook his head.

“That is unlikely. He may be rash at times, but he’s not a fool. He’ll understand why you couldn’t tell him earlier.”

“Will he?” asked Merlin doubtfully. “He doesn’t trust easily, and I’ve been lying to him, misleading him about myself ever since I came to Camelot. How do you restore trust once it’s been broken?”

“With magic perhaps?” Lancelot teased. But Merlin did not laugh with him.

“I fear no magic will ever be strong enough to work such a miracle,” he said. “Not even mine, and I’m the most powerful warlock these lands have ever seen – or so the dragon said.”

“He said that?” Lancelot didn’t know why he was so surprised. After all, he’d seen with his own eyes what Merlin was capable of. Merlin nodded. “Well, it must be true then.”

“Not necessarily,” said Merlin. “Kilgarrah follows his own agenda, most of the time. He is not above lying if it serves his purpose.”

“Kilgarrah?” Lancelot repeated, tasting the word as if it were a piece of exotic fruit, foreign yet most delicious on his tongue. “Is that his name? I never knew dragons had names, too.”

“Neither did I,” admitted Merlin. “Not until my father told me.”

“You found your father?” asked Lancelot in surprise. “And you never told me about him?”

“I meant to,” said Merlin apologetically, “but we were always too busy trying _not_ to die to discuss family matters. And anyway, he’s dead now. I only knew him for a couple of days.”

“That’s a shame!” Lancelot knew how much his friend had always yearned to learn about his father; it had been most cruel of fate not to allow them more time together.

“Yeah,” agreed Merlin, “but at least his death enabled me to save Camelot.”

Lancelot raised both eyebrows. “How’s that?”

“He was a Dragonlord,” explained Merlin with a wistful smile. “The last of his kind; the only one who’d survived the Great Purge. When he died, I inherited all his powers. I’m much stronger now than I was the last time we met.”

“So, does this mean that _you_ are the last Dragonlord now?” Lancelot clarified.

“I am,” answered Merlin simply. “The last of my kind, just as Kilgarrah is the last of _his_.”

“Huh!” Lancelot digested that piece of information for a moment. “What is a Dragonlord, by the way?” Merlin chuckled.

“A Dragonlord has the power to command dragons so that they’ll do his bidding,” he explained. “Ever since I’ve inherited my father’s powers, I can make Kilgarrah do things for me. I even rode on him – twice! – to cross hostile territory in a great hurry. I try not to make him do things he doesn’t agree with,” he added, “lest he grow resentful of me. He’s old, strong and shrewd; and I’m still not sure how strong my hold on him truly is.”

“But you could ask him about this Grail, couldn’t you?” Lancelot insisted. “Or would that be, you know, cheating?”

Merlin couldn’t help it; he had to laugh at that.

“Cheating? No, I don’t think so. I am allowed… no, _expected_ to use my gifts, no matter what Uther’s laws allow. What good would they be to me otherwise? I just don’t know whether asking the dragon would be of any help.”

“Why not?”

“The blasted creature always speaks in riddles,” Merlin sighed. “Still, he might be my best chance, as neither the history books, nor the legends have yielded anything useful.”

“It may be worth a try,” Lancelot agreed; then, with brightening eyes, he asked, “Can I come with you?”

“Why would you want to?” asked back Merlin with a frown. Lancelot shrugged.

“I’ve never seen a dragon. I’m curious if they’re half as magnificent as the old legends tell us. Do they really breathe fire?”

“Oh, yes!” replied Merlin with emphasis. “In fact, he almost roasted me once, two years ago, when we had a… a _disagreement_ , while he was still imprisoned under the castle. I thought that was it for me when he suddenly spat fire all over me.”

“I can imagine,” Lancelot shivered. “How did you escape?”

Merlin smiled. “Magic shield. I might not have been a Dragonlord yet, back then, but my magic has always been strong. Are you sure you want to come with me? Kilgarrah’s alliance is with me now, but he’s dangerous. Perhaps the most dangerous creature that you’ve ever met.”

“That is a bold statement, considering how we first met and what sorts of monsters we’ve already faced together,” commented Lancelot, grinning.

“It’s still true,” replied Merlin, winking at Master Richert, the tailor, who was still stubbornly labouring in his small workshop, in spite of the slowly descending darkness. Merlin briefly wondered if the simple tunic was meant for an actual customer or if the tailor just wanted to occupy himself with something – _anything_ that might take his mind off his concerns. It was as good a method as any… and perhaps one day would bring some coin into the household that seemed poor enough.

Merlin made a mental note to visit Master Richert with his mother who really needed new clothes. She could not keep wearing Mistress Alice’s things… things that were too short for her anyway. If only his duties around Arthur’s person and the need to help out Gaius at the same time would allow him a little more time! He was truly ashamed for not taking better care of his mother. The fact that he barely got a few hours of sleep each night was no excuse.

He took his leave from Lancelot, who headed back to the Citadel, and hurried up to Mistress Alice’s house, determined to apologize and to make up for his long absence… somehow. He knew his mother would understand, but that did not make him feel any better about neglecting her.

He stepped onto the small veranda and raised his fist to knock on the door… and froze mid-movement.

Someone was talking inside the house, and that someone was definitely not his mother. It was a young, male voice; one that sounded vaguely familiar, but at the moment he could not remember from where. Had someone followed his mother from Cenred’s realm and was now threatening her? Or was it a thief, trying to take from her what little she had left?

The magic within him coiled tightly, like a steel feather; then it flared up in a golden flame as he tore the door wide open and stormed into the single, dimly lit room.


	4. Ties of Kinship, Ties of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to create a plausible background for Geoffrey of Monmouth, as I couldn’t really use his actual biography. Sir Ector’s family ties to a certain knight are given in the Arthurian legends. The rest is my doing.
> 
> Believe or not, the gossiping maids are all canon characters. And yes, there are actually two Sir Yvains in the legends. Or Sir Oweins – it’s supposed to be the same name. And yes, they _are_ half-brothers. I’m not making this up!

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 04 – TIES OF KINSHIP, TIES OF LOVE**

Geoffrey de Monmouth remained behind in his private realm, the vast library of Camelot, in a fairly upset state of mind. Prince Arthur’s intention to make him one of the counsellors of the new Vice-Regent filled him with quiet dread. He did _not_ feel up to the challenge that carrying such responsibility would mean. Not in the slightest. Bearing any other office than that of the librarian of the castle and the court genealogist was simply not part of his modest ambitions.

Granted, by birth he would be eligible for any position at court that could be filled by a scholar. He had been born the younger son of a nobleman of Cymru, near Llandaff; not that of a knight or a baron, just that of a modest landowner who, nonetheless, had the right to sit in council with the King of the Cymry and his nobles, as it was the right of every free-born man with lands to his name.

Geoffrey himself, however, had always been more inclined to study than to fight – or to dabble in politics, for that matter – so he let his brother have all the lands of the family and left his home village at the age of barely twenty to tread the path of a scholar. He had come to Camelot, where he became the apprentice of the old librarian, then his right hand and finally, much later, his successor.

He had never returned to Cymru, save for a few short visits on King Uther’s behalf. Other than that, he had spent most of his life in these time-honoured vaults, among books and scrolls and other sources of wisdom. Unlike his master, though – or his best friend, Gaius – he had never displayed any interest in sorcery; not beyond what had been told in the legends and history books. Never in practice.

He had become the tutor of Prince Uther and his younger brother at a fairly young age, which also made him one of the King’s most trusted courtiers. Later, he had also taught Prince Arthur history, languages and the Seven Free Arts… with considerably less success, to his great sorrow. The young Prince had never shown much interest in the finest aspects of being a royal; but again, being an only son (unlike his father) meant that he was burdened with all the duties of the King’s son alone.

There had been times when Master Geoffrey worried about Prince Arthur greatly. Not having siblings or peers of his own rank, the young Prince had rarely met a challenge from anyone who was not deadly afraid of him or who did not go in awe of him. That had made him arrogant, self-centred and overconfident… not the best traits for someone who would one day be entrusted with the well-being of an entire realm.

Until he’d met Merlin, that was. Because from the moment that Gaius’ wide-eyed great-nephew had set foot in Camelot three years ago, things had begun to change, and Prince Arthur had changed with them.

The changes had been subtle; one could only realize them in hindsight, and even so, it would have been hard to determine _how_ they had happened. But the naïve, clumsy country boy with those ridiculous ears seemed to have brought a breeze of fresh wind with him into the stuffy vaults of the castle. He cheerfully refused to be intimidated by Prince Arthur, stood up to him whenever he saw it necessary – which happened at least once a week – and didn’t care if he was sent to the stocks for it. Which, at least in the first year or so, had also happened at least once a week.

But those events had become less frequent as time went on. And the young Crown Prince, who had been on the best way of becoming a hard, joyless tyrant under the heavy hand of his father, had instead become so _alive_ in Merlin’s company that it filled Master Geoffrey’s old heart with warmth. He only hoped that the additional responsibility dumped onto Arthur’s lap by becoming Prince Regent would not take that from him again.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The creaking of the opening door woke him from his thoughts rather abruptly. Startled, he looked up and saw Sir Ector enter, still clad in his festive brocade tunic of sombre black. The Vice-Regent of Camelot looked tired but alert and awake, despite the late hour – but something apparently concerned him enough to visit the library in the middle of the night.

Knowing that he owed the Lord of the Marshes the same courtesy he would have shown the King himself, Master Geoffrey rose from behind his desk, ignoring his protesting bones, and went to welcome him.

“Sir Ector,” he said by way of a greeting. “How can I be of service?”

“Forgive me for disturbing you this late,” answered the knight courteously, “but there’s something that won’t let me rest. I hope you can provide me with some knowledge in the matter.”

“I shall do what I can,” promised the court genealogist. “What do you have on your mind, my lord?”

“This Lancelot, whom Prince Arthur saw fit to make a knight, in clear violation of the Code of Camelot,” said Sir Ector. “What can you tell me about him?”

“Not much,” admitted Master Geoffrey. “He hails from a small village in Benwick; one that has long been destroyed by robbers, it’s said. He came to Camelot almost three years ago, after having saved Prince Arthur’s manservant from the attack of a gryphon – a fell beast that was hunting and killing people in the outlying villages. Somehow he managed to produce a Seal of Nobility, which I later found to be falsified, so that he could become a knight. Apparently, that had been the thing he had wanted all his life.”

“I imagine Uther was not pleased to find out that he had knighted a commoner,” said Sir Ector dryly.

“He was furious,” Master Geoffrey agreed. “He banned Lancelot from Camelot when the truth came out, of course. But Lancelot remained in the realm and secretly joined the hunt for the gryphon – and he actually slew the beast, saving Prince Arthur’s life and that of the knights with him. The King pardoned him for that, but he said he couldn’t live a lie and left the court voluntarily.”

“Where did he go?” asked Sir Ector. Master Geoffrey shrugged.

“I’m not sure. They say he served various lords of the realm as a hired sword, among them Gornemant of Gohort, who spoke of him in high tones.”

“But he came back, eventually,” said Sir Ector. Master Geoffrey nodded.

“Yes; I am told that Merlin wrote to him and asked for his help to reclaim Camelot from the Lady Morgana and her allies. But why would you be interested in someone like him, my lord?”

“It is that strange coin… or medal, the one he wears around his neck,” explained Sir Ector. “I could swear that I’ve seen something like that before – I just cannot remember when or where. Do you have any books on foreign coins here?”

“Of course, my lord; and with fairly accurate drawings, too.” Master Geoffrey walked to one of the shelves and dragged down a couple of heavy, leather-bound tomes. “Let’s see if we can find that coin of yours.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Two candles burned down to the stick as they went through all the books, but the coin Lancelot wore around his neck could not be found in any of them.

“Perhaps it wasn’t a coin, after all, but a medal with an old family crest,” suggested Master Geoffrey. “We should take a look at those, too.”

Sir Ector eyed the dozen or so shelves, packed full with books and scrolls about the old families of the realm.

“How many days would _that_ take?” he asked wearily.

“Many,” replied Master Geoffrey seriously. “But we can start with the province of Benwick and the ones around it. That might narrow down the search.”

He selected the right books, and they went to work again, although their eyes were already reddened and teared up at every other moment. They were halfway through the third candle when Sir Ector finally laid a fingertip on one of the beautifully crafted pictures.

“This is the one,” he said. “I’m sure. Do you know whose crest it is?”

“Give me a minute, my lord.” Master Geoffrey took out his magnifying crystal lens to see more clearly the tiny letters surrounding the crest. “Oh, I see! It’s a rather unusual one, which is why I didn’t recognize it right away. It seems it was created as the personal crest for the Lady Elaine de Benoic, shortly before she married Ban, Lord of Benwick.” He gave Sir Ector a startled look. “Was the Lord Ban not your father?”

The knight nodded grimly. “Oh, yes. And the Lady Elaine was his second wife, as my mother died in childbirth many years ago, when Kay’s mother was born.”

“But how would the Lady Elaine’s family crest come to someone like Lancelot?” asked Master Geoffrey, stunned.

“That,” said Sir Ector grimly, “is something I intend to find out, first thing in the morning.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
At the same time, Hunith had spent a surprisingly pleasant day in Camelot. Having helped Gaius with his herbs all morning (just to do something useful and to ease the burden of her uncle), she returned to Mistress Alice’s house to find that William had tidied a good portion of the small garden. He had dug up the flower beds, done a great deal of weeding, and was about to clear the narrow pathway leading from the back door to the wash-house when she arrived.

“I hope you don’t mind, Mistress Hunith,” he said, almost apologetically, “but I’m not used to just sitting around idly and twirling my thumbs. And I wanted to repay you for your hospitality.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all, and I’m sure Mistress Alice would be grateful if she could see her garden now,” replied Hunith, patting his arm gently. “This used to be such a beautiful place in my youth: full of flowers and fruit trees and healing herbs. I used to help her and my Uncle Gaius make potions and pills and salves… those were good times.”

“You are a healer?” asked William with visibly growing respect. Hunith shook her head regretfully.

“I used to be an apprentice healer, but I never finished my training. I came to Camelot to learn the nature of herbs and how they could be used to treat illnesses and injuries. To use that knowledge when I returned to my village. But then came the Great Purge, and life became dangerous, so I decided to go home – and never came back.”

She had left to help Balinor get away, but William did not need to know that. Besides, what did all that matter now, almost twenty years later?

“I can turn this place into an herb garden again,” offered William shyly, shuffling his feet. “It’s not the same as working on our fields with a team of oxen, but it’s good, honest work; and people will need all sorts of medicine if they’re supposed to make it through the winter. Our village elders said it would be a harsh one this year.”

Hunith nodded thoughtfully. She had not yet thought about what she could do for a living while in Camelot, but growing herbs seemed a sensible idea… more so as she now had this young man to help her with the really hard work. Uncle Gaius would like to have most of his herbs within reach… without having to send Merlin out into the woods all the time. More so as the woods were a dangerous place these days; she had experienced those dangers in person.

“That is a good idea,” she said. “I’ll ask my uncle, who’s the court physician, what herbs he will need most. And I’ll talk to the apothecary on the other side of the street, too. What about the well, though? Can we clean it, so that it would be safe to drink from it?”

“I’ve drawn a few buckets of water this morning, to soften the soil,” answered William. “There are lots of rotten leaves and other plant remains inside the well, but no animal carcasses as far as I can tell. It will take time, but it _can_ be cleaned.”

“That’s good,” said Hunith in relief. “Going to the public wells for water would take even more time and effort, if we want to water the flower beds properly. Did you have the time to take a look at the fruit trees? Can any of them be saved?”

“The apple trees are healthy enough,” judged William, “and so is the one cherry tree, although we might have to prune them thoroughly. “The rest of them are beyond help. I’ll have to cut them down and split them into firewood. There’s enough room in the wash-house to store it.”

They went out into the garden, checking the as-yet untidied flower beds and the bushes gone wild, discussing the work that had to be done, and for the first time since the destruction of Ealdor, Hunith felt something akin to hope. She knew all this was temporary, but at least it gave her life purpose; and William seemed to feel the same way.

Later in the afternoon, one of the kitchen maids (whose name was apparently Rowena and who seemed to be quite smitten with Merlin) came down from the Citadel and brought her a little food. Not much, of course, just some thick soup again, a chunk of coarse bread and a few strips of dried, salted meat. But Hunith was grateful nonetheless. With what little fruit they could find in the neglected garden, she and William had as nice a supper when darkness started to fall as people could hope for in these hard times. She felt content with the turn her fate had taken.

They were still sitting at the dinner table, barely visible in the low light of the single candle stump standing in the middle of it, when there was a strange noise outside the front door: like the growling of some enraged beast. In the next moment, the door was thrown open, and in stormed Merlin, his eyes glowing like molten gold, his hand raised like the claws of the falcon he’d been named for, as if he were about to release some deadly power.

 _And_ he was aiming it at poor William, who jumped up from the table… and froze with shock.

“Mother, are you all right?” demanded Merlin, anguish clear in his voice. “Has he hurt you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin, of course he has not!” Hunith rose and stepped between the two young men to keep her son from doing something he would regret later. “William is here because I invited him in. He helps me in the garden.”

It took Merlin a moment till the meaning of her words reached his mind. Then he let his hand fall, the golden gleam was gone from his eyes, and he all but slumped onto the bench next to the door.

“I’m sorry, mother. I… I heard a voice from outside and thought you were in danger…”

“Well, now you can see that I’m not, so why don’t you join us at the table?” Hunith fetched another candle stump and lit it, so that they could see each other better. She’d usually save the candles, even such small stumps, as long as they could see without them, but now she found it necessary to show her son that she was unhurt indeed. “We still have a little soup left, and somehow I doubt that you got much to eat today.”

“No more than anyone else,” admitted Merlin. “Gaius and I had some oatmeal in the morning, and I snatched some leftovers after the feast.” He placed a small basket with little pieces of cold meat, bread and cheese on the table. “That’s all I could save for you. There are too many hungry mouths, even in the Citadel.”

“ _You_ eat,” said Hunith sternly. “You need your strength to keep up with all the work you are expected to do. You, too, William,” she added, waving the still frightened young farmer back to the table. “You’ve worked hard all day, too. Come and eat and try to be civil, both of you!”

William came back to the table hesitantly. He had been badly frightened by the appearance of her son, and was still wary about him. As soon as he entered the circle of candlelight, though, he and Merlin suddenly stared at each other in utter disbelief.

“ _You_?” they asked in unison.

“I assume the two of you already know each other, then?” commented Hunith dryly. Her son grinned from ear to ear.

“Oh, yes, very much so. I just didn’t expect to find him here.”

“And I didn’t expect _you_ to be Mistress Hunith’s son,” William countered.

“I feel a strange story coming up.” Hunith sat back at the table and wriggled into a comfortable position. “I expect to hear it while you’re eating.”

Merlin and William laughed and told her in loving detail the tale of ‘Sir William of Daria’; how William had posed as a foreign knight so that Prince Arthur could prove his skills with sword and lance, without people yielding to him just because he was the King’s son. It was a long and merry tale, occasionally frightening when the assassin Myror came into the picture, and it took them the greater part of the night to tell it properly.

Merlin never got back to the Citadel that night.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When he did return in the morning, he found Arthur in an exceptionally foul mood. Not that _that_ would have been unusual lately, but today it seemed to be a new low.

“Where have you been?” demanded the Prince Regent. “And, more importantly, where the hell was Lancelot last night?”

“I visited my mother,” replied Merlin with a frown. “You do remember that she’d sought refuge in Camelot, right? As for Lancelot, he escorted me to the house where she lives in the lower town, because _someone_ insisted that I stayed in the library well past the curfew; then he returned to the Citadel, I assume. He _was_ the one to lead the patrols last night.”

“Then why would Sir Ector want to speak with him, in my presence?” asked Arthur.

“How am I supposed to know that?” countered Merlin snappishly. “I’m just a lowly servant, aren’t I? Great and mighty lords of the realm don’t share their intentions with me.”

“But you’re a friend of Lancelot,” pointed out Arthur reasonably. “So if he were in trouble, you’d know about it.”

“Well, I don’t,” snapped Merlin. “So, instead of interrogating _me_ , why don’t we go and see what Sir Ector could possibly want with Lancelot?”

“ _We_?” echoed Arthur, giving him his best royal eyebrow. “I can’t remember _you_ having been invited to this meeting.”

“Well, that’s too bad, because I’m going anyway,” Merlin returned. “Lancelot _is_ my friend, and I won’t let him face some high-nosed lord of the realm alone.”

Arthur shook his head in exasperation but didn’t protest, and so Merlin trotted after him to Uther’s small audience chamber, where the King – or currently the Prince Regent – usually met his subjects about private matters. To their surprise, Geoffrey of Monmouth was there, too, carrying a heavy, leather-bound tome that, by the title of it, was some sort of history book, dealing with the noble families of Benwick province – the very area where Lancelot came from.

The knight himself arrived shortly after them, accompanied by a wary-looking Gwaine who showed no intention of leaving his side.

With long, purposeful strides, Arthur crossed the audience chamber, plummeted into the great chair of the King and looked at his Vice-Regent with forced patience.

“Well, Sir Ector? I’m here, Sir Lancelot is here, and so are you. Can we learn now what has earned him the questionable privilege of an audience first thing in the morning?”

“Master Geoffrey and I have spent half the night finding out the origins of a certain medal,” began Sir Ector. “A medal of bronze, with a specific family crest… the same one Sir Lancelot is wearing right now.”

Lancelot frowned and involuntarily touched the bronze medal, clearly visible under his open-necked shirt. “What about it?”

“It is a unique crest that was specifically created for the Lady Elaine de Benoic, on the occasion of her wedding to Sir Ban, the Lord of Benwick,” explained Sir Ector. “I’d like to know how it came to you.”

“You must be mistaken, my lord,” said Lancelot. “I’ve had this medal all my life. I can’t remember a time when it didn’t hang around my neck, ever. I got it from my mother.”

“And she would be…?” Sir Ector persisted.

“A very simple woman from a small village that was destroyed when I was about ten,” answered Lancelot. “She died during that attack.”

“What was her name?” asked the Vice-Regent. Lancelot shrugged.

“Niniane; at least that was how people called her. I don’t know if it was her true name. She never spoke much about herself, and I was quite young when she died.”

“What about your father?” asked Sir Ector.

“I don’t remember him,” replied Lancelot flatly. “What’s the meaning of this, my lord? I didn’t steal the medal; if my mother did, I had no part in that crime. If you know the lady to whom it once belonged, and if she wants it back, I will give it back, although this is the only thing I have left of my childhood. I’m not a thief.”

“I never said you were,” answered Sir Ector. “Tell me, do you happen to have an old scar on one of your shoulder blades? A faded scar, shaped like the head of a lance?”

Lancelot stared at him in surprise. “I do; on the left side. But why…?”

Sir Ector interrupted him. “I need to see it.”

Lancelot shook his head. “I don’t think so. Whether or not I have such a mark on me, it is my concern alone; and I won’t take off my clothes publicly, just to satisfy someone’s curiosity.”

“It isn’t idle curiosity!” protested Sir Ector.

“Then I suggest you tell us the reason first,” Arthur interfered coldly. “ _Then_ Sir Lancelot can decide if he’ll do as you ask.”

“As you wish, sire.” Sir Ector took a deep breath. “You probably know already, but if you don’t, Master Geoffrey here can attest that my father was Lord Ban of Benwick…”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “ _Of course_ I know that, Sir Ector; your sister married my uncle, after all!”

“My mother died giving birth to her,” continued Sir Ector, as if the Prince had not interrupted him at all, “and many years later, my father married again: the Lady Elaine of Benoic, daughter of one of his vassals. They had a son named Galahad. A year after Galahad’s birth, an old foe of my father’s, Lord Claudas of the Waste Lands, attacked our castle and drove them out of their lands. My sister and I were visiting the kin of our mother at that time, and we were kept in the Marshes for our own safety.”

“That I also know,” said Arthur with exaggerated patience. “It’s all part of the family history. But what does it have to do with Sir Lancelot?”

“I’m coming to that, sire. My father, his wife and the infant escaped to the forest of Brocéliande, with only one of the Lady Elaine’s handmaids accompanying them. But when my father looked back and saw his beloved castle in flames, he fell into a swoon. The Lady Elaine placed the infant in the arms of her handmaid as she tended to her dying husband. When she had done what she could – not that it could save my father – she looked around and saw that the maid was gone; and so was her son. The maid’s name was Niniane.”

“What?” Arthur furrowed his brow. “But that would mean…”

“That would mean that Sir Lancelot here, assuming he does have that particular scar, originating from an early accident, is, in truth, Galahad, late-born son of Lord Ban and the Lady Elaine – and my half-brother,” Sir Ector finished for him. “I assume that the maid Niniane simply took him and raised him as her own son, changing his name. Which is why we never managed to find him.”

“You looked for him?” asked Gwaine doubtfully. Sir Ector gave him a displeased look.

“Of course I did; he’s my only brother – _if_ he truly is whom I think he is,” he replied. “Which would also make him the cousin of Sir Leon and his brothers, as their mother was cousin to the Lady Elaine. The only proof we need to see is the scar, and he can bear the family crest rightfully. Which, I assume, would make his life at court a great deal easier. Not even Uther would have any reason to reject him.”

“That’s true,” allowed Arthur; then he looked at his faithful knight. “Well, Lancelot… or should I say Galahad?... are you going to show us that scar?”

“I see no need to do so,” answered Lancelot stubbornly. “I am what I am; I want to be judged by my skills and deeds, not by my birth, whatever _that_ might be like.”

“I can’t blame you for that, considering how you were treated in the past,” said Arthur. “But if you indeed _are_ the half-brother of Sir Ector, that fact would spare me _one_ confrontation with my father, once he gets better; and for that, I’d be grateful.”

Lancelot considered that for a moment, then he sighed reluctantly.

“Very well; if it makes your life easier, I’ll do it,” he said, unbuckling his belt to take off his shirt and tunic.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The incredible news spread like wildfire all over Camelot, of course. It would have been hard to tell who was more shocked by the revelation: the new knights of the Brotherhood or the simple folk – _including_ Gwen, who seemed a lot less excited about Lancelot’s new, elevated status than anyone else.

“Well, what did you expect?” commented Annis, one of the chambermaids, to Merlin’s friend Rowena from the kitchens. “As long as she believed Sir Lancelot to be a commoner, she could always hope that even if the Prince managed to break her spell, she’d always have the finest knight.” 

Needless to say, Annis was biased; she, too, had a definite interest in the new knight. Her best friend, Cathryn, nodded with emphasis.

“But now that he, too, turns out to be the son of a great lord, she might find herself between two stools on the cold stone floor. Cause I doubt that either King Uther or Sir Ector would welcome a serving wench in their family.”

“You really think Gwen has bewitched them?” asked Rowena a little doubtfully. Since she had firmly set her eyes on Merlin, she was slightly less jealous of Gwen’s privileged status than the other maids.

“What else?” asked back Branwen, a pretty blonde – the same one the old witch Mary Collins, posing as the Lady Helen, had nearly killed three years previously. She had needed almost a year to recover and was still suffering from nightmares, which made her less kind towards others than she had used to be. “She has neither the birth to be considered suitable, nor the stunning beauty that would explain why both have fallen for her so hard.”

“To think that Prince Arthur wanted to give up his birthright, just to be allowed to wed her!” muttered Annis. “And was she not nearly executed for enchanting the Prince, not so long ago?”

“Those were false accusations,” Cathryn reminded her. “It was that old sorcerer, Dragoon, or whatever his name was, who hid the evil charm in the Prince’s chambers.”

“Was it?” returned Branwen, not quite willing to give Gwen the benefit of the doubt. “And why hadn’t we ever heard of that great, evil sorcerer before? And what if he acted in league with Gwen? For that matter, how did she become the Lady Morgana’s maid in the first place? We all come from families that have served faithfully in the palace for generations, but she? She’s just the blacksmith’s daughter!”

“Her mother served Sir Leon’s family,” pointed out Rowena. “I believe she was suggested by the Lady Madelyn when the King brought the Lady Morgana to Camelot. At least that’s what my mother says.”

“And she’s been with the Lady Morgana all the time,” said Branwen bitterly. By the order of the lower ranks, _that_ should have been _her_ position, as her own mother had served Queen Ygraine for many years. “Who knows, perhaps she was in league with her all the time. Perhaps she still _is_.”

“That’s unlikely,” Rowena shook her head. “She risked her _life_ to help Sir Leon escape. She helped Prince Arthur and the others while they were on the run, too. And even earlier, she has always been loyal.”

“Loyal… to whom?” questioned Annis dryly.

“To herself and her own interests,” said Cathryn. “Yes, she did run off with Sir Leon to warn the Prince – but did she not lead Morgause’s henchmen straight to his hiding place? And now she’s back, all prettied up like some grand lady, ready to become Queen, and her brother is now a knight… I’d say, she played her cards well enough.”

“I still can’t believe she’d use enchantment to ensnare either the Prince or Sir Lancelot,” answered Rowena. “Where would she learn how to do it in the first place?”

Branwen shrugged. “Well, we know that her father was executed for practicing sorcery.”

“But he didn’t… not really, did he?” asked Beatrice, the chambermaid assigned to the guest rooms. She was relatively new, having taken over the place of an elderly relative, and so she wasn’t really familiar with the court gossip yet. Rowena sighed.

“Well, actually, he did,” she admitted reluctantly. “Tom Blacksmith _did_ help that sorcerer, Tauren or whatever was his name, to turn lead into gold – everyone knows that. I don’t say he meant any harm, perhaps he didn’t even know what he was doing, but he did help a man who was planning to murder the King.”

“And he was healed by witchcraft during the plague three years ago. Gwen was thrown into the dungeons for that!” added Branwen.

“But she was innocent, wasn’t she?” said Cathryn.

“Was she?” asked Branwen. “It was never thoroughly investigated. Not after Merlin came forth and confessed being the sorcerer.”

“Everyone knows he only did that because he, too, was bewitched by her,” countered Rowena. “Even Prince Arthur said so.”

“Yet if it _were_ so, do you think Prince Arthur would bear them to be such good friends, considering how besotted _he_ is with Gwen?” said Annis doubtfully.

“I don’t know,” admitted Branwen. “I only know that there’s something awfully queer. Do we know who her mother was, save that she used to serve Sir Leon’s family? Or if Tom Blacksmith was truly her father? She and Sir Elyan don’t even look alike at all!”

“That’s true,” said Cathryn thoughtfully. “But if she’s a bastard of the late Sir Leontes, she wouldn’t need to worry about her acceptance at court. Even bastards count as nobly born, if sired by a landed lord… even one who lost his lands.”

“True, but what if her father was someone _else_?” asked Beatrice, who had grown up on the most unbelievable romances, as her brother was a wandering minstrel. “She’s a few years older than Prince Arthur; was born _before_ the Great Purge. All sorts of people used to come and go in and out of Camelot. She could be the daughter of some visiting sorcerer – who knows? She might not even know herself!”

“She might not, but I bet the Lady Morgana knew,” said Branwen darkly. “She’s always favoured Gwen. Perhaps she hoped to pull her onto her side against the King.”

“Not _always_ ,” corrected Rowena with emphasis. “Not in the end.”

“No,” agreed Branwen. “One wonders what caused the falling out between them.”

“Well," said Cathryn slowly, with an unpleasant smile on her face, “there could be only _one_ Queen, be it by birth or by marriage…”

“How very true.” Branwen listened to the tower bells for a moment. “We must go, girls. Her Highness the future Queen won’t be pleased if she catches us gossiping in the kitchens.”

They all giggled and hurried off to do their chores. None of them spotted Merlin, who had come to fetch a jug of wine for Arthur, and was now staring after them in shock.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Hours later, when Arthur finally released him to help Gaius, he was still fairly shocked by the discussion he had accidentally overheard.

“I never thought Gwen was so hated among the other maids,” he said, walking with Gaius towards the infirmary, where they wanted to check on the condition of the ailing knights.

“Well, she’s always been… _different_ ,” replied Gaius cautiously. “As modestly as she’s always behaved in the presence of nobility, she tended to let the other servants feel that she was above them; and that didn’t go well with them. Especially with the women whose families have served in the palace for many generations… like Branwen’s. Or Beatrice’s. Those families consider their service a privilege and don’t take it kindly when outsiders intrude on their territory.”

“But why would she think herself above them?” asked Merlin, honestly confused. “If those families are so valued, wouldn’t their daughters outrank her?”

“They would, if she were but the daughter of a newly-hired servant,” explained Gaius. “Yet she is – _was_ – the daughter of a respected craftsman; one who’d long earned his freedom. And then, of course, there was the Lady Madelyn.”

“Sir Leon’s mother?” Merlin recognized the name from the girls’ gossip.

Gaius nodded. “She hailed from Cymru; and when she married Sir Leontes, she brought her most trusted tirewoman with her: a dark Cymrian girl of unknown origins by the name of Gwenhwyfar.”

“Gwen’s mother?” Merlin guessed. Gaius nodded again.

“She was a woman of great beauty and devoted to the Lady Madelyn. She died from a fever when her children were still quite young, and the Lady Madelyn, who always yearned for a daughter yet only ever conceived sons by her lord, took Gwen into her house and raised her as if she were her own. Taught her everything that a high-born daughter of a noble family needed to know.”

“So, that’s why she and Sir Leon grew up together,” realized Merlin. “What about Elyan?”

“No one ever showed any particular interest in Elyan,” replied Gaius dryly, “not even Tom. He taught the boy his craft – and taught him well! – but that was basically it. Gwen has always been the apple of her parents’ eyes, their little princess. Small wonder that Elyan left as soon as he’d come of age.”

“They still seem fairly close, though,” said Merlin. Gaius shrugged.

“They only have each other; and Elyan, despite sibling rivalry, has always been protective of his sister. He was even proud that she’d risen in the ranks so quickly, becoming handmaid to the King’s ward.”

“It must be strange to them both that now Elyan is the one raised to knighthood, while Gwen is still a servant… well, more or less,” guessed Merlin.

“Not exactly,” Gaius shook his head. “A chatelaine is usually a noblewoman; just as the seneschal is usually a lord of considerable rank. That’s why Sir Kay is being groomed to take over that office eventually… when Arthur becomes King.”

“But Gwen isn’t a noblewoman,” said Merlin. “And yet Master Geoffrey himself suggested making her chatelaine.”

“By title only, not by true power,” replied Gaius. “The true power lies with Sir Ector right now… and will go to his heir in due time. Geoffrey suggested elevating Gwen above the rank of an ordinary servant to lessen the impact of the scandal her relationship with the Prince has already caused.”

“Because she’s destined to become Queen?” asked Merlin.

“I don’t know about that,” answered Gaius tiredly. “Morgana clearly believed so, which is why she tried to destroy Gwen, and we both know that she _could_ see glimpses of the future sometimes. But the future is not set in stone, and things can always turn out differently than visions might show them. We’ll have to wait and see how fate unfolds on its own. Now, however, we have some patients to look after. Come!”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They entered the infirmary, which was a moderate-sized room at the end of the corridor where Gaius’ own chambers were situated, so that he could reach it quickly and easily. Originally a rarely-used storage room, it had been fitted with two parallel rows of sickbeds when several of the knights had suffered mysterious injuries that – while not killing them outright – kept them in a strange, twilight state between life and death. They were still breathing, albeit shallowly, and even had a slow heartbeat, but they did not wake up, needed no food or drink… they just _were_ , lying in their red-curtained beds, kept in a half-sitting position by the multiple pillows stuffed behind their backs, as if they were sleeping.

Gaius went to check on Sir Pellinor first. The young knight, almost as dark-skinned as Elyan, with a clean-shaven head, had still been recovering from his battle wounds suffered at Othandon when he had accepted the challenge of the Black Knight and was therefore in the most weakened state. His skin had taken on an unhealthy, greyish pallor, but he seemed still alive… or rather not quite dead yet. Like on every single day for the last two years.

Sir Pellinor had no kin in Camelot and thus almost never got any visitors, save for Arthur who never missed a day to look at his knights when he was at home. So Merlin was fairly surprised to see Sir Kay, sitting on a stool at Pellinor’s bedside. Did the two possibly know each other?

Arthur’s cousin looked up in sorrow upon their arrival.

“It’s a terrible sight, seeing someone waste away like this,” he said softly. “Someone this young at that; and as valiant as I know him to be. I met him a few times at tournaments – he was so brave, had such joy in fighting; and they say he was a true marvel at Othandon. What ails him? Why would his wound not heal?”

“He was wounded by a wraith; a creature conjured up by dark magic,” explained Gaius. “Such a wound, caused by mortal weapons, would have killed him instantly. But the enchanted weapon of a being between life and death has trapped him, too, in the same limbo.”

“Will he ever recover?” asked Sir Kay. Gaius spread his hands in defeat.

“That I cannot say, my lord. Such wounds are beyond my skill to heal. We would need a Druid or a sorcerer to break the enchantment, and even then it is doubtful that in his weakened state he would survive.”

“It saddens me that it was my father who did this to him,” said Sir Kay. “I only knew him as a good, honest man. Aunt Ygraine’s death must have clouded his mind.”

“It did,” agreed Gaius with a heavy sigh. “But that creature was _not_ your father, Sir Kay. It was his dead body, called back to unlife by foul sorcery. Try to keep his memory as you knew him as a child.”

“Hard to do so when I see these brave young knights floating between life and death,” said Sir Kay. “I especially feel sorry for Sir Yvain, having to see his only brother like this. I hope he won’t hold it against _me_.”

“Sir Yvain the Valiant?” asked Merlin with a frown, well remembering the arrogant knight from the first presentation. “What has _he_ to do with Sir Pellinor?”

“Not with Pellinor; with Owein,” replied Sir Kay. “They are both the sons of King Urien, who displayed the warped sense of humour to even give them the same name. Although Owein chose to go with the Cymrian version of it. Sir Yvain is the legitimate heir, the son of Queen Brimesent; Owein’s mother was a lady of the court, which is why he was called Owein the Bastard in King Urien’s realm.”

“So that’s why Sir Yvain came to Camelot?” inquired Merlin. “To find his brother?”

Sir Kay shook his head. “I doubt it; the two were never close. I believe Sir Yvain came for the adventure, first and foremost – he thrives on danger and risks. But they are still brothers, and blood is thicker than water. It must be horrible for him to see Owein like this.”

“Not any more than for Sir Geraint and the Lady Enide to see young Erec lying here day after day,” sighed Gaius, checking on his third patient. “He was supposed to wed his lady on the feast of Beltane – alas, Morgause’s skeleton army attacked only days before the wedding, and he’s been like this ever since: neither alive, nor truly dead.”

“But his wounds are less severe than those of the others,” said Sir Kay.

“Yet they’re enchanted wounds, caused by evil sorcery,” replied a new, deep and grave voice, making them all jump.

Something stirred in the shadows, and forth came the tall, cloaked and hooded figure of Iseldir, the head Druid.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“How do you do _that_?” asked Merlin, unnerved.

The Druid looked at him in tolerant, unsmiling amusement. ”How do I do _what_ , young one?”

“Appearing out of thin air and then vanishing again,” clarified Merlin.

Now Iseldir was definitely almost-smiling.

“I don’t. I just distract your minds, so that you won’t notice my coming and going. It is a simple trick and quite harmless, I assure you – just makes you focus on something else.”

“Like what?” asked Sir Kay flatly.

“Like this.” The Druid raised both hands, conjuring up the image of a swarm of black butterflies. They all jumped when he continued speaking behind their backs. “Attention is easily redirected… unless you are trained to ignore such distractions.”

“I see,” Sir Kay looked at him thoughtfully. “Why are you here?”

“I, too, have things to atone for.” Iseldir gestured in the direction of Sir Pellinor. “One of our kind used her power for things we cannot condone. We do not fight magic with magic; nor use it to restrain others of our own kind, even if we could. But I’m willing to help, if I can.”

“You mean you can heal these men?” Gaius’ tired eyes began to shine with hope. “Can you break the enchantment and call them back to life?”

“I can try,” replied the Druid. “I’ll need the Cup of Life for _that_ , though. No, don’t worry,” he added. “I do not intend to take it with me; we have proved to be insufficient guardians already. But these young men need to be given water from the Cup, if I am to heal them… if indeed they can be healed.”

Gaius looked at Merlin, who shrugged. “The Cup is in the secret treasury. I can try to get it out. Perhaps if the guards believed that Arthur sent me…”

“No,” Sir Kay interrupted. “They would not. But I can get the Cup for you - I’m entitled to enter the treasure chambers in my fath… in Sir Ector’s stead.”

“You’d do it?” Merlin frowned. “Even though you know that magic is outlawed in Camelot?”

“It might be outlawed in Camelot, but it certainly isn’t in the Eastern Marshes,” replied Sir Kay with a shrug. “Our subjects use healing and fertility spells all the time. I won’t say that I’m entirely comfortable with the idea, but I know they would never survive without the help of a little magic in that harsh country. And I certainly won’t deny these men the chance of healing – if there is indeed such a chance.” He stood. “Wait here for me. I’ll bring you the Cup.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He left the infirmary, leaving the stunned Gaius and Merlin alone with the Druid. Merlin shot Iseldir a doubtful look.

“Have you truly returned to heal the knights?” he asked.

“No,” replied Iseldir bluntly. “Although I _will_ do my best to help them if I can. But I’ve come back to speak with you, Emrys.”

Merlin rolled his eyes; he really hated when the Druids called him that. Firstly, it was too closely tied with that whole destiny business, and secondly, it always reminded him of Mordred, which was _not_ a pleasant memory. “What about?”

“About the future,” declared the Druid gravely. Merlin couldn’t help it; he just had to roll his eyes again.

“Whose future?”

“Yours, ours, Arthur’s… that of the whole of Albion. That future is teetering on a knife’s edge right now, and it’s up to you to steer it back to the right path,” Iseldir told him.

“ _Me_?!” exclaimed Merlin, flabbergasted. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know,” admitted the Druid. “I’m not a seer, and the prophecies are unclear. You must seek out guidance, young one.”

“I hoped you would be able to help me,” said Merlin, disappointed.

Iseldir shook his head. “I’m a healer; nothing more, nothing less. You must find someone who’s able to see the future.”

“And were can I find someone like that?” demanded Merlin. “Morgana was the only one I knew who could do that, and I can hardly ask her for help.”

“Not right away perhaps,” allowed the Druid. “But perhaps she isn’t beyond all help yet. She wasn’t _born_ evil, you know; there was a time when she used to help and support you in doing what is right. She might become a great supporter of the Once and Future King yet.”

“But… but the dragon said that Morgana must die or Arthur would fail his destiny!” said Merlin uncertainly. Iseldir shrugged.

“Dragons have vast knowledge and they can indeed see the future… or, at least, a possible future; several possible futures even. That doesn’t mean they’re always right, though.”

“I don’t understand,” confessed Merlin. “How can they see several futures at the same time? How can there _be_ several possible futures?”

“It is the past that is done with and that we cannot change,” explained Iseldir. “The present we shape and change every moment of our lives. The future, however, isn’t set in stone yet. It’s shaped by what we do in each given moment, and our choices are our own. No-one can foresee them.”

“What about the prophecies, then?” asked Gaius. This perspective was clearly new for him, too.

“They, too, only predict _possible_ futures, based on what the prophet uttering them already knows,” answered the Druid. “Some of the things our Elders had foretold have changed already. You, Emrys, were born a generation later than your coming had been expected. You were meant to stand with Uther; to help him along his way to the throne and to help him make Camelot what it was supposed to be. You were meant to become the mentor of Arthur, to help raise and teach him… tasks that, for some reason, have ultimately fallen into Gaius’ hands.”

Merlin was so shocked he needed several tries until he could finally speak coherently. “But why? Why was I born so much later?”

“We don’t know,” said Iseldir tiredly. “All we know is that, by powers we can’t even imagine, things have been changed profoundly, and even if the ancient prophecies can still come true, the outcome may be a different one than we’ve all thought.”

“So, what am I supposed to do now?” asked Merlin.

“Fulfil your destiny,” answered the Druid simply. “In one thing the Great Dragon was right: you are and have always been meant to help Arthur unite Albion and bring about a new, golden age. _How_ that is going to happen is less certain now than it used to be at the time of our forefathers. But a new age is coming for sure, and you are every bit the key to it that Arthur is.”

“Thanks for not applying any pressure at all!” muttered the warlock darkly.

Iseldir gave him the shadow of a smile. 

“You’ll find help and wisdom in the most unlikely places,” he promised. “And you must listen to the magic inside you; you were born with it for a purpose. It will not mislead you.”

“Easy for you to say,” groused Merlin. “You’ve been learning how to deal with magic all your life.”

“And so must you,” pointed out the Druid. “So _have_ you indeed, even if you have not realized before. But if you feel the need to learn more, you can always come to us. We shall be glad to teach you.”

“As if I could just leave!” protested Merlin. “I’m needed here! Arthur needs me!”

“He needs you _now_ very much,” agreed Isilder. “Time will come when he’ll need you less. And we’ll be waiting for you.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Merlin would have loved to argue some more, to ask more questions – his entire life had just been turned upside down, after all! – but he could not. Sir Kay entered the infirmary again, holding something in his hand: a fairly small item, wrapped in raw, undyed silk.

“Here it is,” he said simply. “What else do you need?”

“Just water,” replied the Druid, “and some privacy. This is not something I’d do in front of an audience.”

“We shall leave then and wait outside,” promised Gaius with a respectful bow, and Sir Kay followed him readily, obviously relieved that he wouldn’t have to witness whatever was about to be done.

But when Merlin moved to go with them, Isilder stopped him with a raised hand. “Not you, Emrys. I’ll need your help.”

“What for?” wondered Merlin. “I’m not a gifted healer. Not even a trained one. I just help out Gaius sometimes.”

“Usually, I’d do this with my brethren,” explained the Druid. “This healing spell requires great power; none of us could cast it alone. I’ll need your strength to support me.”

 _That_ shocked Merlin a little, but he knew better than to protest. “Well, of course… what do you need me to do?”

“Focus on your magic and repeat the spell with me.” Iseldir unpacked the Cup, half-filled it with water and went to Sir Pellinor first.

Supporting the young knight’s bald head with one hand, he held the Cup to his parched lips with the other one, while chanting in a low, rhythmic voice. “ _Buthed gwared.. hrag pob ailed… hrag pob ennis… boyd un thilis…_ ”

Merlin murmured the spell with him again and again. Iseldir managed to pour a little water from the Cup into Sir Pellinor’s half-opened mouth and stroked his neck to make him swallow, repeating the chant. Again. And again. And again.

Finally, when they had almost given up hope, the long, black eyelashes resting on the young man’s smooth cheek fluttered. He opened his eyes, looked around himself blearily – and promptly fell into a deep, healing sleep.

Iseldir released a long-held breath. “Well done, Emrys. Now, let’s see if the others react this well, too.”


	5. Echoes From a Future Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For visuals: Lionel is played by a young Jonathan Firth, as he appeared in the Cadfael TV series. Sir Bors is played by Tom Price (Torchwood’s PC Andy).

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 05 – ECHOES FROM A FUTURE FAR**

The miraculous recovery of the three ailing knights overshadowed even Lancelot’s newly-revealed ancestry on the next day – for which the modest knight was grateful. So was Arthur – not for the overshadowing part, obviously, but for getting back his valiant men whom he had believed lost.

“I didn’t dare to believe that Gaius still had it in him,” he said, impressed.

“He doesn’t,” replied Merlin with a shrug. “It was Iseldir.”

He found it wiser not to mention his own involvement in the magical healing process just yet.

“The Druid?” said Arthur in surprise. “Why would he come back, risking his own life, just to help us?”

Merlin shrugged again. “He’s a healer; that is what he does. _And_ he felt he ought to undo some of the harm Nimueh had done.”

“Why should he?” Arthur frowned. “It wasn’t his fault…”

“They both belonged to the Old Religion,” answered Merlin. “Healer and priestess count as kin, I guess. In any case, he did us a great favour. I don’t think Gaius would have the strength to cast a spell that powerful.”

Arthur nodded in reluctant agreement. “You still want to get rid of the Cup?” he then asked.

Merlin nodded with emphasis. “Now more so than ever before. It’s too powerful for any of us to use, even if magic weren’t outlawed in Camelot; and it would be too much a temptation for every vengeful witch or malevolent sorcerer if it remained here. The waters of the Lake of Avalon will hide it safely.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Arthur. “And you still want to take it there yourself, I guess. Have you found someone to keep _you_ safe?”

“Not yet, but I think I’ll ask Lancelot,” Merlin smirked. “He’ll be all too happy to escape all this attention from people he doesn’t even need, and we get along well.”

In truth, he wanted Lancelot to go with him because Lancelot knew about his magic and he wouldn’t need to pretend with him as company. Which meant that he could protect himself and the Cup with all his powers, without being worried what would happen after their return.

“That’s a sensible idea,” said Arthur. “With him to protect you, you might actually reach the Lake of Avalon in one piece – _and_ still having the Cup.”

Merlin did not find the time right to tell the Prince that he could take care of himself well enough – better than most people, in fact. _That_ was a revelation he was still gathering his courage to make.

“Well, now that Iseldir has healed the knights in the infirmary, you won’t miss Lancelot so much,” was all he said. “Although Gaius warns that it will take time – a lot of time – until they can become their old selves again. Especially Sir Owein and Sir Pellinor. Their muscles have atrophied a great deal from just lying there for years.”

“But they _will_ recover, won’t they?” asked Arthur in concern. Merlin nodded.

“Eventually. With much loving care, Gaius says – and a lot of hard training afterwards, to regain their fighting skills.”

“Sir Leon will be looking into that,” said Arthur. “And I’m sure Sir Geraint and his lady wife will take good care of Erec… _unless_ the Lady Enide wrestles that privilege away from them. I haven’t seen a lady quite so devoted to her betrothed as her. But what about Owein and Pellinor? Will Gaius be able to take care of them, aside from his usual duties, while you’re gone?”

Merlin shook his head. “I don’t think so, sire. Gaius is old; and he has your father to care for as well, which is no small feat. But if you don’t mind, I think my mother would be happy to help out in the infirmary. She used to care for sick people all the time in Ealdor; she’s good with people, and Gaius taught her a lot in her youth.”

Arthur looked at him and his eyes lit up in delight. “Merlin, every time I come to the conclusion that you’re an idiot, you manage to surprise me again. Why, this is the best idea I’ve heard all day! Hunith is good at mothering; and Owein and Pellinor would benefit from the care of a mother.”

“They’d also need a servant of some sort,” Merlin reminded him sternly. “My mother is not a chambermaid.”

“What they need is a squire,” decided Arthur,” and I happen to know the right person.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“You want me to become Sir Owein and Sir Pellinor’s _manservant_ , sire?” young Lionel, scion of an almost-royal House and brother to the First Knight of Camelot, asked indignantly. He might not mind being a friend to and easy-going with servants like Gwen, whom he practically saw as an older sister, but that did not mean that he’d want to _become_ one of them. 

His brothers rolled their eyes. Like every knight-to-be, they, too, had spent their due years in the service of some respected knight; first as pages, then as squires. That was the time-honoured way things had been done in Camelot for years uncounted. Unfortunately, their mother had spoiled her late-born child rotten, and her lord had not been much better. Lionel wasn’t half-bad with the sword – Leon and Bors had seen to that since his tender years – but he seemed to think that looking pretty and behaving in a courtly manner was all that made a knight.

“It’s well beyond time for you to begin your training in earnest,” Sir Leon told him. “You’ve served Sir Oswin as a page, but then you returned home and did _nothing_ for the last four years.”

“Nothing but plucking the harp and writing bad poetry,” muttered Sir Bors, who was close to Leon in age and had little patience with their baby brother’s antics. “If you ever want to become a knight, this is your last chance.”

“By becoming a servant?” protested Lionel, red-faced with self-righteous anger.

“Not a servant; a squire,” corrected Arthur. “It is a privilege, youngling, granted to nobly-born sons of respected Houses alone, and you’d do well to see it for what it is.”

“And how am I supposed to refine my fighting skills by cleaning the room of invalids?” asked Lionel angrily.

“A knight needs to learn the basics of leech-craft, too: how to tend to his own injuries, or to those of his comrades, when no healer is available,” replied the Prince coldly. “You’ll learn that from Mistress Hunith, while serving Sir Owein and Sir Pellinor in every capacity in which they might need you. Then your skills will be tested by Master Gaius, the court physician; if he declares that you can do adequate leech-work, I’ll send you to a knight who can teach you a thing or two about swordfighting.”

“Leon can do that!” said the youth rebelliously.

“ _Sir_ Leon will have his hands full with the training of the knights,” replied Arthur with emphasis on the honorific title. “Besides, I find it better if you are taught by someone whose family ties to you are a bit looser.”

“Whom do you have in mind, sire?” asked Sir Leon quietly.

“Lancelot,” said Arthur. “There’s no-one better, save perhaps Gwaine, but _he_ would have the boy in tears on the first day. Lancelot is distant kin to you all, yet hardened by a harsh life – he’ll be the best.”

“But… but he grew up as a commoner and used to work as a hired sword!” sputtered Lionel indignantly. “He knows nothing about courtly life!”

“But he knows _everything_ about swordfighting,” countered Arthur. “Or do you believe that courtly dances and reciting bad poetry will help you defend Camelot once the armies of Morgause rise again? And trust me, they _will_ rise.”

“ _If_ it will be Morgause indeed who will command them,” added Sir Leon grimly. “She might be a black sorceress and a powerful one, but she isn’t the one who can wield a sword as well as any man. His Highness is right, Lionel; you need to learn from the best. And save for Prince Arthur himself, Cousin Lancelot _is_ the best.”

“He was a hired sword, a mercenary!” protested Lionel. Sir Leon nodded.

“You’re right; he was. Which is exactly _why_ he is the best. He _had_ to be if he wanted to survive.” Seeing that his little brother would still keep arguing, he raised a gloved hand to stop him. “Enough of this, brother. Your Prince wants you to be trained by Lancelot, and I agree. I also agree that you need to learn some leech-craft – we all have, and you should have done so years ago, had Father not given in to your fits and whining too often. This stops here. _I am_ family head now, and I say you’ll obey Prince Arthur’s orders. Mistress Hunith,” he turned to the simply-clad woman who had been listening to them with tolerant amusement, “I entrust to you my brother to teach him and guide him as you see fit. Don’t let his birth keep you from disciplining him if he deserves it. He’s been held on too loose a leash all his life. It is time for him to grow up and learn that everything he does has consequences.”

Hunith smiled at the mutinous youth. “Don’t worry, my lord. I’m used to dealing with belligerent young boys.” She touched the youth’s elbow lightly. “Come with me, Lionel. First, I’ll show you how to prepare bandages. It isn’t difficult, and your strength will come in handy with the tearing of linen cloth.”

She led the still reluctant boy out of the audience chamber, ignoring his dark expression. Sir Leon looked after them in concern.

“Do you believe it will work out, sire?” he asked. “I fear our brother is used to getting his will and might give Mistress Hunith a hard time.”

Arthur grinned and clapped the First Knight on the shoulder.

“Rest assured, Leon; Hunith even gets _Merlin_ to do his chores properly if she puts her mind to it, and no one else is capable of doing _that_. Lionel will be no challenge for her at all.”

“I’m more concerned about Lancelot,” admitted Sir Leon. “He may be uncomfortable with disciplining a relative he’s never heard of before; and Lionel _will_ need proper discipline, if we want to make a knight of him one day.”

“Lancelot will have ample time to prepare himself for the gargantuan task,” replied Arthur. “I’m sending him on a quest with Merlin, and that will take quite a few days.”

“If you say so, sire,” said Sir Leon obediently, although one could still see the doubt in his face.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“A quest? What quest?” Hunith was visibly agitated when her son told her about the journey he planned to undertake in a few days’ time.

“I need to take something to a place where no-one can find it,” explained Merlin. Even though he was not allowed to tell his mother everything, the thought of lying to her had never occurred to him.

Hunith blanched. “Is it dangerous?”

“Probably,” admitted Merlin. “Most likely, yeah.”

“Then why must _you_ do it?” demanded Hunith, overcome with fear for her son. “You aren’t a soldier or a knight – why have you got to be the one to go?”

“Because it _is_ dangerous,” said Merlin gently, “and because I’m the only one who can do it, you see?”

Hunith understood and her face turned deathly pale. 

“I understand,” she said quietly and stopped arguing. 

She had always known this day would come; the day when her son would have to face mortal dangers alone, because he was the only one with the strength to do so. She had known it, but that did not make it any easier to bear.

“Don’t worry, Mistress Hunith,” said the young, dark-haired knight who had come with her son to visit. “He won’t be alone. I’ll go with him and protect him.”

“Lancelot is the best swordsman in the entire kingdom,” added Merlin with almost proprietary pride. “Not that I’d really need protection.”

“Oh yes, you do,” countered Lancelot. “Your… _skills_ don’t make you immortal or invulnerable; we’ve discussed this before.” Seeing Hunith’s alarmed face, he smiled reassuringly. “I know what he can do. It saved my life three years ago. But I still won’t let him face any dangers alone.”

“Well, I guess I’ll be safe enough with you, then.” Merlin shot him a warning glance as William was coming in from the garden at that very moment. “I’m more worried about leaving my mother behind again. A fortunate thing that she has William to keep her company.”

Lancelot eyed the slight young man doubtfully. Sure, the farmer’s hands and arms did show some wiry strength, but he was still a stick – almost as thin as Merlin.

“Are you sure that will be enough? Pillaging will be inevitable when food supplies start to run low.”

“William is stronger than one would think,” Merlin smiled, “and he’s good at keeping up appearances. He even managed to look impressive enough to be taken for a knight… well, at least until he had to enter the fighting grounds.”

“My greatest fear was that I wouldn’t be able to slip into the tent and switch places with Prince Arthur between the parade and the actual joust,” William admitted, laughing. “I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

Lancelot stared at him incredulously. “You’ve impersonated the Prince in a tournament?”

“Actually, it was _him_ who impersonated _me_ ,” corrected William, which only made Lancelot even more bewildered.

“Why on earth would he want to do _that_?”

“It was just a fit of self-assurance on Arthur’s part,” explained Merlin. “He believed his knights would let him win, just because he was the Crown Prince.”

“And?” Lancelot urged him on. “Did they?”

“Well, Sir Leon might have had his moments, but the others, I’m sure, were too ambitious for that,” replied Merlin. “Arthur wouldn’t believe it, though, and so he decided to _prove_ himself. So, with the help of Gwen, we created this ‘Sir William of Daria’ persona to enter the tournament. Arthur did all the actual fighting, but sent William out to accept the congratulations.”

“And no-one has ever found out?” marvelled Lancelot.

“Not a soul – aside from Gaius,” said Merlin. “Of course, the fact that the most feared assassin of Albion was trying to kill Arthur on King Odin’s behalf at the same time might have distracted people a little.”

“I imagine it might have,” commented Lancelot dryly. “Was that the same tournament where Sir Alynor was nearly murdered?”

Merlin nodded, his face darkening. “The assassin attacked him in his own tent, unawares, just to get to fight Arthur in the final, wearing his armour. Nearly succeeded, too.”

He didn’t add _how_ the assassin’s plans had been thwarted. He knew Lancelot would realize it on his own, and William really didn’t need to know, not yet. Lancelot caught his look and inclined his head slightly in unspoken understanding. There was _one_ thing the knight still wanted to know, though.

“But how could the assassin know it was Arthur who fought in William’s stead?”

“I’m not sure,” admitted Merlin, “but perhaps he followed me to Gwen’s house, where Arthur was hiding while everyone thought him on patrol. He came to ask me questions on that day…”

“I see,” murmured Lancelot thoughtfully. “So _that_ is how it began…”

“How _what_ began?” asked William, but Lancelot shook his head.

“Never mind.” He looked at Merlin. “When do you want us to leave, then?”

“As soon as possible,” answered Merlin. “The way itself isn’t very long, but all paths across empty lands are dangerous these days; and we’re well into autumn already. Days are getting shorter and nights colder day by day.”

“Speaking of which, your clothes won’t do for a journey at this time; they’re worn through, almost threadbare.” Hunith rummaged a little in the clothes chest and held up a warm jacket, made of soft, brick-red wool, to see how it would fit her son. “You’ve become even skinnier since I last saw you, but this ought to be the right size.”

Merlin frowned at the jacket. It seemed to be the right size indeed, but… “Where did you get this, mother?”

“Why, from the old clothes merchant down the street, of course,” replied Hunith, smiling. “I had to haggle a bit, as it is made of really good cloth – must have belonged to some wealthy youth once – but in the end, I got it for a more than reasonable price.”

“But… but you were supposed to get a new dress for yourself, from Master Richert!” protested Merlin. “I wanted you to have some proper clothes again!”

“And I will, in due time,” promised Hunith. “I’ll get paid for working with Gaius in the infirmary, and we’ll restore Mistress Alice’s herb garden, William and I. But you can’t go on a long and dangerous journey without a good coat to warm you, and William here can’t go through the winter with only the one shirt he owns. I, on the other hand, can wear Mistress Alice’s things a little longer.”

“I don’t want you to,” murmured her son miserably. “You need your own things.”

Hunith smiled and kissed his cheek. “It’s just a little longer, dear heart. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be safe and cared for. Just keep yourself out of danger if you can, will you? I cannot lose you, too. So be careful.”

“I’m _always_ careful!” said Merlin, hugging his mother.

“No, you’re _not_ ,” countered Hunith sadly, hugging him back; then she hugged Lancelot, too. “Bring him back safely.”

“I’ll do what’s in my power,” promised the knight, losing himself in the long-missed motherly embrace for a moment. Then he let her go with a pang of regret and turned to Merlin, sighing. “Well, let’s go back to the Citadel, then. We’ve got some planning and packing to do.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They left Camelot two days later, in the early morning. The sun had barely risen above the eastern hills, and the air was cool, almost chilly, with a little fog and a vague promise of frost in the coming days. The rapid worsening of the weather worried Merlin a bit, as he was considering making a detour to the Crystal Cave, but that was something not even his magic could help him with – not in the long run anyway.

At least they were travelling comfortably. They had got good horses from the royal stables. Not heavy warhorses of foul temper, bred for battle and tournaments, but reliable palfreys that were fast and agile and could go on for a long time on little food, without the need to rest. They also had bedrolls and saddlebags with more clothes and as much food as the kitchens could spare for them; mostly dried meat, hard cheese and bread. The rest they would have to find along the way.

In order to draw as little attention as possible, Lancelot was wearing his old, worn blue tunic and stained cloak over his mail shirt, looking every bit the hired sword he’d been not so long ago. Merlin was clad as always, but he obediently put on the new, warm jacket his mother had got for him. The Cup of Life, wrapped in several protective layers of silk and linen cloth, was hidden in his backpack. He went unarmed, as always, taking only the Sidhe staff with him – which was hard enough to smuggle out of his chambers unnoticed.

At first Gwaine had been fairly annoyed, perhaps even a little hurt that he couldn’t go with them. He of all people was used to travelling through the wilderness alone – they could have put his skills to good use, he pointed out.

“I know, and you’re right, of course,” said Merlin apologetically. “But I need you to protect Arthur while I’m gone.”

“There are quite a few knights who can do that just fine,” Gwaine reminded him.

“Yeah, but you’re the one I can _trust_ ,” returned Merlin. “You and Sir Leon, that is, but he’ll be too busy with other duties… and _he_ cannot fight dirty, if needs must be. _You_ can; and you will, won’t you?”

“Of course,” said Gwaine with a crooked grin. “I’m a man with my own rules, remember?”

“I’m counting on _that_ , actually,” answered Merlin, making puppy dog eyes, and Gwaine gave in with a frustrated sigh.

So it was just him and Lancelot who rode out of Camelot right after sunrise, through the Western Gate, taking an ancient, seldom-trodden road across the woods. It led, after quite a few slopes, to the borders of the Perilous Lands, where the Lake of Avalon, not quite part of Uther’s kingdom, yet not entirely outside of it, either, could be found. That meant a journey of about twenty leagues, across mostly empty lands and wild forests, and since a ride on the dragon’s back was not an option right now, that could take at least four days through such perilous territory – not counting a possible detour to the _Valley of the Fallen Kings_. A detour Merlin still hadn’t mentioned to Lancelot yet.

They rode in companionable silence for a while, Merlin deep in troubled thoughts, Lancelot secretly relieved that he could escape from all the attention his newly-revealed noble ancestry had earned him in recent days. He was still fairly uncomfortable with his re-found kin and had a hard time believing that his real father had been a mighty lord with a demesne of his own to rule. Even if the Lord Ban had lost said demesne to some land-hungry neighbour. The fact that Master Geoffrey and Sir Ector were currently working on creating him a proper Seal of Nobility meant nothing to him. He didn’t like the thought that he’d be honour-bound to reclaim his father’s lands from the usurper. All he had ever wanted was to become a knight – not to become entangled in the conflicts of nobles he was apparently related to. As a result, he was truly grateful to Merlin for the chance to leave Camelot for a while.

“So,” he said, after they had ridden for a couple of hours, “where are we taking this… _thing_ we are supposed to hide?”

“To the Lake of Avalon,” replied Merlin airily. Lancelot raised both eyebrows.

“And what, pray you, _is_ the Lake of Avalon?”

“The gate to the Otherworld,” said Merlin matter-of-factly. “That is where the Sidhe live… the fairy folk that guard the gateway between the two worlds: theirs and ours.”

“Magical creatures,” concluded Lancelot. It was not a question, but Merlin nodded anyway.

“And quite malevolent ones, too, capable of long-held grudges, they say. No wonder, though, considering that they live more than a thousand years. And they don’t like us mere mortals.”

“No friends of Camelot then?” asked Lancelot with a grim smile.

Merlin suddenly started grinning like a fool. “That depends on your point of view, I guess. Just a few months ago, they nearly succeeded in putting a Sidhe Queen on Camelot’s throne.”

“ _What_?” After all that he had already seen, Lancelot wasn’t easily shocked any more, but now he almost fell off his horse.

“One of them took possession of Princess Elena of Gawant, the daughter of Lord Godwyn, right after her birth,” explained Merlin. “Uther wanted Arthur to marry Elena, honouring a long agreement between him and Lord Godwyn. Had he done that, the Sidhe in her would have emerged, and their kind would have taken over the entire kingdom.”

Lancelot needed a few moments to take in _that_. “Their plan obviously failed,” he then said. “How did you manage to thwart it?”

“ _Me_?” protested Merlin without even thinking. “I didn’t do anything!”

That earned him an eyeroll from his friend. “Merlin, you don’t have to pretend with _me_ , remember?”

“Sorry,” Merlin apologized. “I’m used to denial. Anyway, it was mostly Gaius. He was the one to recreate the potion of the witches of Meredor – the only way to force a fairy out of the person they have possessed.”

“And the Sidhe simply accepted that?” asked Lancelot doubtfully. Merlin shrugged.

“Well, their Elder _was_ a little… displeased. Fortunately, I had _this_ from an earlier encounter.” He lifted the Sidhe staff briefly. “This is the only weapon that can destroy them.”

“You killed their Elder?” Lancelot’s jaw nearly hit the bow of his saddle.

“ _And_ his pixie servant,” added Merlin modestly. “ _And_ the fairy that was possessing Princess Elena.”

“You killed _three_ of them?” Lancelot shook his head in stunned disbelief. “Merlin, you never cease to amaze me.”

“Five, actually,” corrected Merlin a little sheepishly. “Although the first two were banished ones, forced to wear a human shape, so they don’t really count, I guess.”

“And after that you’d still take the risk of going to the heart of their realm?” asked Lancelot. “Why would you do that?”

Merlin gave him a brilliant smile that could have cured a rainy day. “To visit an old girlfriend,” he replied.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Many, many leagues away, in the north-western part of the kingdom, a small, two-wheeled cart, pulled by an aging, dun-coloured horse, was rolling along the road that led to the Red Castle of Gawant, the seat of the Lord Godwyn. A short, elderly woman was sitting on the cart, among leather chests and wicker baskets, clad in a plain, blue gown made of rough linen and a thick coat of homespun brown wool. She had a round, gentle face and kind eyes; her light brown hair, generously shot with grey, hung in a thick braid over her shoulder.

The horse was led by a young man of perhaps twenty or twenty-two years, short of stature and sandy-haired, with a plain face and pale blue eyes. He wore dark breeches of rough canvas, an undyed linen shirt and a sleeveless leather jerkin. His boots, well-made but stained, were patched in several places. From his broad belt a short broadsword hung in an unadorned scabbard.

At first sight, he looked like any other rustic country lad. But the hilt of his sword was clearly made by a skilled weaponsmith, and he wore an intricately-wrought silver ring with a sigil carved of some pale blue stone on his middle finger that hinted otherwise. He walked next to the horse with measured strides, like someone who was used to travelling on foot since early childhood. The old crone, on the other hand, was visibly exhausted and eager to finish the journey.

“Finally,” she breathed in relief when the many lead-capped turrets of Lord Godwyn’s castle became visible before them, albeit still at some distance, standing on a platform commanding the gorge of the river below. “That is Gawant… hopefully our home for the upcoming winter.”

“But will you be safe here?” asked the young man in concern.

The crone smiled. “No-one knows me here; and in these days, a good healer is always welcome. What about you, though? Are you truly willing to work as a stable hand or as a manservant? You could become so much more!”

“And I will, one day,” swore the young man. “When magic is permitted once again, as someone promised me not so long ago. And when that day arrives, I shall no longer have to hide who I am. My gifts will be recognized, and we shall both be free. Until then, I can bide my time. I’m young enough.”

“You’re alarmingly wise for one so young,” the crone teased him with a grandmotherly smile. “I’m so glad that I’ve found you.”

The young man smiled back at her. “So am I. Let’s see if we can find shelter in Lord Godwyn’s town for the winter, then.”

They continued their way, and by the sound of the fourth-hour bell, they reached the great gate leading to the lower town of the castle. The guards, wearing mail shirts, helmets and the device of Lord Godwyn on their surcoats, crossed their halberds to stop the cart’s approach.

“Who are you and what is your business in Gawant?” one of them asked.

“My name is Alys,” answered the crone. “I am a healer. I travel all over the kingdom, offering my services to anyone who needs them – except in winter, when I need a place to stay. I’m old; I cannot go around in the cold any more. I hoped that this year we could stay here, in Gawant, until springtime.”

“And who is this?” the guard pointed at the young man.

“This is Gwilim, my grandson,” replied the crone. “He’s good with horses, and he knows how to wield a sword. Perhaps he can find some work in your fine town during our stay.”

The guards exchanged meaningful looks. Then the one who had questioned the travellers said, “I heard that Princess Elena has been looking for a tirewoman ever since her old nurse vanished during their visit to Camelot. Go straight up to the keep; perhaps she’ll take a liking to you. As for your grandson, Lord Godwyn can always use more stable hands. Or men-at-arms, if he proves himself skilled.”

“Our thanks, good sir,” said the crone. “We shall do as you suggest.”

The guards uncrossed their halberds, allowing the cart entrance into the town. Young Gwilim grabbed the reins of the horse and led it across the drawbridge, under the arched gateway and the portcullis, and up the street leading directly to the Lord’s keep.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The journey of Merlin and Lancelot was long and mostly undisturbed, save for the inconveniences of spending the nights in the outdoors. No footpads or wild beasts bothered them along the way, and while the food remained sparse, they did find at least some wild berries that they could eat or mushrooms that they could roast over the open fire. With Merlin around, kindling a fire was never a problem, not even after the quick showers that swept over the woods from time to time.

So did they cross the empty lands, riding slowly yet steadily westwards for four days. When they reached their destination on the fifth morning, it was a clear, cold one, with not even a wisp of a cloud upon the grey-blue sky that was mirrored in the clear, blue water of the Lake.

The water, unlike the sky, was an impossibly dark blue, as smooth and bright as a sheet of glass. The chilly breeze tugging on the autumn leaves all around the Lake did not ripple its surface, not the slightest. It was an eerie sight… unnatural somehow. It made Lancelot shiver.

“So, who is this old girlfriend of yours we’re visiting here?” he asked.

“The Lady of the Lake,” answered Merlin simply. “She dwells beneath the water and can’t leave it, as there is a boundary she can never fully cross.”

“Why not?” Lancelot frowned. Merlin was talking in riddles, just like that dragon of his; and probably just as infuriatingly.

“Because she would turn to water herself,” replied Merlin. “In places like this, death is but an illusion; a thin veil of fog separating the two worlds. By a strong enough will, here the Dead might be able to slip through the gateway; but they’re bound to the place where that gateway exists and will never be free again.”

Lancelot made a conscious effort to close his mouth that had been literally hanging open.

“Does this mean that your girlfriend is _dead_?” he asked.

Merlin nodded; all those suppressed feelings for Freya suddenly burst to the surface and tears started running down his gaunt face.

“She’s been that way for over a year now. This is where I buried her.”

“And you’re sure she’s still here somewhere?” Even after all the weird things they had faced together, Lancelot found _that_ a little hard to believe. “What makes you think that?”

“Dreams, visions and a fairly recent encounter,” replied Merlin with a shrug. He wiped his tears away with the sleeve of his jacket, then walked down to the edge of the water and called softly, his voice a ringing echo over the mirror-like surface. “Freya? Come to me, my heart; I need your help.”

Now the surface of the lake began to ripple. Small ripples swelled into impressive, towering waves. Then all the waves moved together, spraying white foam, and formed one solid column of water. After some more rippling, the water took on the shape of a woman. A very young, very pale woman, with long, dark tresses and haunted dark eyes. Her iridescent turquoise gown was clearly made of living water and kept changing its outline constantly. The form of the woman – a girl, rather, for she looked terribly young – remained solid enough; although that, too, might be an illusion. She seemed to stand on the water, even though her feet could not be seen; and she wore a wreath of water lilies on her brow like a queen would wear her crown.

“I can’t go any further,” she said, her voice low and gentle. “You must come to me, my love; and you must hurry up. We don’t have long. I can only keep up this shape for a short time.”

At first Lancelot was afraid that Merlin would jump into the icy cold water – the warlock was nothing if not impulsive by nature, and this dead girl… lady… water nymph clearly meant a great deal to him. To his relief, though, he spotted a small boat nearby. Merlin must have known of its existence, for he jumped into it, backpack and all, and whispered something that Lancelot couldn’t understand.

“ _Gesigle!_ ” – or something like that. The knight did not really know and he did not _want_ to know. It was better not to meddle in the affairs of wizards.

It must have been some kind of spell, though, because the little boat obediently moved off, sliding towards the middle of the lake, where the Lady was standing, as if driven by an invisible wind.

After a while it slowed down and stopped entirely, just within the Lady’s reach. And reach out she did, extending both hands towards Merlin with a tremulous smile.

“And so we meet again, my heart,” she said. Merlin nodded, his eyes suspiciously bright, even from the distance Lancelot was watching them.

“And again, I come to you for help,” he replied, taking her hands and breathing a tender kiss on the back of each one. “One day I shall find a way to repay you, I promise.”

“Nonsense,” said the Lady. “It’s giving me the chance to see you again, and that’s reward enough. Mine is a lone existence between two worlds; I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” confessed Merlin. “I wish I could stay here with you, forever… but I cannot.”

“No,” she agreed. “You still have much work to do in the world of the Living – great deeds to perform. Your destiny has to unfold in the fabric of time yet. But worry not. One day, when your work is done, you shall return here in the end… and I shall be waiting. For I have been granted the privilege to guide you through the Gates of Avalon when your time comes to full circle. When you grow old and weary of your duties. I’ll always be here.”

“Promise?” asked Merlin, as innocent and child-like as if he hadn’t been the one who had fought monsters and battled immortal armies for years. She nodded.

“I promise. I’ll be in your debt forever; for I was lost and you found me and taught me what it meant to be loved. And even though I was a monster at night, you never feared me and never turned on me; and for that, I’ll always be grateful and watch over you as far as I can.” She smiled and touched his face gently. “Now; let me free you from your burden before our time runs out.”

Merlin took the Cup from his backpack, unwrapped it and handed it to her. She raised it with both hands and began to hum. It was a wordless melody of eerie beauty, almost like a lullaby, but its power could not be denied; for suddenly dark clouds gathered right above their heads, blotting out the sun. Lightning crackled, and a thin stream of rain came down from the clouds, pouring directly into the Cup.

The Lady stopped her chant, and the sky cleared at once, returning to its cold grey-blue. She tilted the Cup a little and looked into the water filling it, as if it would show her images – perhaps it did; it was an item of powerful magic, after all – and frowned.

“Merlin, the time to save Camelot is running out already,” she warned. “Prince Arthur must not wait much longer to begin his Quest, or else it will be too late. And you must go with him; he won’t be able to do it without your help.”

“But how are we supposed to find the Grail when we don’t even know what it is, let alone where?” asked Merlin.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “To find the answer for that, you’ll need more powerful guidance than mine. You must go to the Crystal Cave and ask Taliesin to help you understand what the crystals may show you. He is the only one who was alive last time the Grail was seen. But you‘ll have to go to him. Like me, he is bound to his own gateway and cannot leave it.”

“I know,” said Merlin. “I’ve planned to pay him a visit on my way back; even though it’s quite the detour and Arthur probably won’t be pleased.”

“Take _him_ , too.” The Lady glanced at Lancelot across the water, and the knight had the feeling that she could see _through_ him; through heart and soul and mark and bone. “He needs to see where giving in to his heart could lead. He is in great danger; and if he fails, he’ll endanger you all.”

Merlin nodded, knowing all too well what she meant, unsurprised by the fact that she knew about the doomed love triangle between Arthur, Gwen and Lancelot in the first place. The Dead had their ways to learn about past and present events, even if their knowledge of the future – of _possible_ futures – was necessarily limited.

Which reminded him of something.

“Will the Cup be safe with you here?” he asked.

“For a while,” answered Freya. “But it has its own magic, and it cannot be tied to one place. After a while, it will simply vanish and reappear in other places – where it is needed. That’s how it has always been and how it will always be. That’s its purpose.”

“But how…?” wondered Merlin. The Lady smiled at him with gentle sorrow.

“The Lake of Avalon is much more than your eyes can see. Its roots reach through the Otherworld to infinity; not even the fairy folk can tell how far. But that should not worry you. The Cup is always there where it needs to be; and there will always be those who bring it to safety at great personal risk. Your duties in this matter have ended. You must go now and follow your chosen path.”

She leaned over and kissed Merlin tenderly; not as a great lady would kiss her champion but as a lover would kiss her equal. Then she collapsed into a column of clear water again, mingling with the water of the Lake, pulling the Cup with her into its unfathomable depths. A moment later there was no trace left of her presence, not even the smallest ripple; the Lake was smooth and bright as a mirror again.

“Oh, Freya…” Merlin’s voice was breaking in anguish. He stayed there for a long while, hunched over the side of the boat as if he were listening to some distant voice Lancelot couldn’t hear, his tears running freely again. “No!” he then cried out; but a heartbeat later he paled and bowed his head. “I’ll try. I promise.”

Sitting back onto the bench, so that his bony knees nearly touched his thin shoulders, he whispered the short spell again, his eyes turning to molten gold briefly. The boat turned around smoothly, floated in the same place a little – and then turned back.

“What did she say to you after she was gone?” asked Lancelot in concern, helping him to the shore again. Merlin looked at him with eyes full of tears and anguish.

“She said that if I found another lost soul during the Quest, I must teach her and guide her, so that she may find her way, too… and that I should not be afraid to love her.”

“She set you free!” Lancelot understood.

“I didn’t ask her to do that,” whispered Merlin, heartbroken. “I don’t _want_ to be free!”

“Perhaps not, but you _need_ to be free for the rest of your life, and she clearly knows that,” pointed out Lancelot. “You cannot spend all your years pining after that which you cannot have.”

Merlin gave him a mirthless smile. “Look who’s talking…”

Lancelot had the grace to blush. “I know… but I haven’t asked for it either, have I? And besides, she has chosen Arthur; we both know that. Why would the Lady say that I’ll endanger myself and everyone else?”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Merlin. “But there’s someone who _might_ ; and I think we must go and ask him for guidance.”

“Go where?” asked Lancelot.

“To a wonderful, dangerous and cursed place,” replied Merlin grimly. “We’re going to the _Valley of the Fallen Kings_.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When she had been very young – shortly after she had first come to Camelot, in fact – people would often tell Morgana (then considered Lady Gorlois) the tale of Fyrien, the greedy merchant. How he had built a castle at the Sea of Meredor as an outpost for the trade routes to the east. How he dug tunnels from the castle to the sea as a way to smuggle his wares into the kingdom, wanting to avoid Camelot's levies. How the castle had been abandoned when war broke out with Caerleon and the trade dried up.

How it had still been standing when Baudemagus, the King of Caerleon, defeated by Uther at the Battle of Denaria, retreated there to rest and regroup. How Uther, well aware of Fyrien’s secret labyrinth beneath the castle, had used it to ambush Caerleon and defeat him. It had been a proud chapter in the history of Camelot and the House Pendragon, and therefore often told. Every child knew it by heart, nobles and commoners alike. It was an exciting tale, even though most likely grossly exaggerated on their King’s behalf.

In all that time, she had never expected that one day she would have to take refuge in that very castle. Not even in her worst nightmares. Certainly not just a few months earlier, when Morgause and Cenred had chosen it as their base of operations, trying to lure Arthur into a trap. And yet here she was, and here she would likely stay for some time yet.

Having spent her entire life first in the fortified keep of Lord Gorlois and then, from the age of ten, in the unparalleled magnificence that was Camelot itself, the white Queen of all castles of Albion, with its many turrets, huge glass windows and crenellated walls, the Castle of Fyrien seemed nothing but a battered ruin in her eyes. Although, as ruins went, it was still standing proud. And it was still a safe place, standing on a spur above the Sea of Meredor, in a good position to secure the valley and prevent their enemies sneaking up on them unnoticed. Now that the labyrinth had collapsed, the only way to approach it would be face-on.

Although only a handful of their supporters had made it out of Camelot after the destruction of their immortal army, the castle, even in ruins, could be held against overwhelming numbers. Its gatehouse, actually a sturdy, rectangular tower itself, stood high and sturdy, with two-feet-thick stone walls and a portcullis that still worked. It had a long, narrow passageway, vaulted and with rooms above which once must have been comfortable, judging by the large fireplace on the south side. That was where the men still holding allegiance to Morgana now lived, so that they could watch the gate and the road leading to it all the time.

To the right of the gatehouse, an impressive stretch of curtain wall stood almost to its full height and retained most of its facing stone. Only fragments of the rest of the curtain wall remained, mainly on the east side where the stub of a rectangular projecting tower was visible, and on the north side the curtain wall was much reduced. Within the walls, on the circular mound, a stone keep had been built, and the hall between the gatehouse and the tall ruined towers to the west had once rivalled that of many a petty king. 

There were two towers in the west corner, one octagonal and one semi-circular. Only their outer walls had survived, but those stood to four storeys high in some places. The octagonal tower had large windows with dressed stone surrounds, and the base of a spiral staircase leading to its now uncovered top.

Attached to the eastern end of the towers was a cross-wall, which divided the castle ward into two. Its northern end was one wall of the hall block, and had a doorway which led into the rooms below the hall. The hall was a large and rectangular room at first-floor level. Its inner walls had been hurriedly rebuilt during Cenred’s short reign there and had served as his temporary throne room. Now it was the place where Morgana lived, as the keep had fallen into disrepair and become uninhabitable.

All things considered, the Castle of Fyrien was still the best place to hide and regroup, even if not a worthy dwelling place for someone who had not long ago been the Queen of Camelot. But it had to do, for the time being. She needed to reconsider her strategy – and Morgause needed to recover. She had been lying like one dead in the battered bed that had been dragged over from the keep – or what was left of it – so that she could be waited on all the time.

Not that she would ask for it or even know about it. She had been unresponsive since the day of her confrontation with Gaius.

Gaius! Morgana rose from the richly carved oak-wood chair that had been Cenred’s temporary throne and started pacing along the chilly hall, not caring that the hem of her fine, dark green gown was dragged across the dirty stone floor. That it would have been Gaius who defeated Morgause! Morgana had known the meek old fool all her life; or so she had believed. Always smiling, always bowing to Uther like a reed in the wind… how could she have underestimated him so much?

That had been a mistake she wouldn’t make again. She had now realized his potential, the possible danger he represented. Next time, she would be prepared.

Because there _would_ be a next time, definitely. She had not given up her ambitions to reclaim the throne of Camelot. Now that her powers were about to reach their full potential, there would be no-one to stop her; not even if Morgause should fail to fully recover. Yes, Gaius _was_ a possible obstacle, but she would deal with the wily old troll. She would repay him for feeding her lies and sleeping draughts all those years, just to suppress her abilities. To keep her chained to a mundane existence that had been slowly suffocating her.

Gaius had always been Uther’s most faithful lapdog. Perhaps she would allow him to die with his master. _If_ she were feeling generous.

But that was a plan for the farther future. Right now, she needed to deal with first things first. She needed to find a way to heal Morgause. She needed to gather more supporters; armed men who would guard them and women gifted with magic to help her with her efforts. Before everything else, though, she needed _knowledge_. Knowledge about the whereabouts and doings of her enemies. _Reliable_ knowledge.

Fortunately, she no longer needed to rely on human messengers. During the year she had spent with Morgause, her older sister had taught her quite a few tricks; among them how to bend a chosen bird or beast to her will and use them as her extended eyes. That was the beauty in using such messengers: they could not lie.

Wrapping her fingers tightly around the tiny silver flask with the mixed blood of the bird and her own that she always wore around her neck, she murmured the spell that would call Cwén back to her. And indeed, she soon could hear a loud, hoarse caw from the outside. She hurried to the shuttered window in the antechamber, flipped the latch, and the two halves of the window opened inwards, like the wings of a portal. At least Cenred’s servants had fixed the windows and the doors _here_.

She opened the outer shutters as well, and right before her the large black raven landed on the windowsill. Shifting from foot to foot for balance, it flexed its wings and tilted its head expectantly. Morgana extended her arm, as if summoning a hunting falcon, and Cwén hopped onto her forearm. 

It was a fully grown bird and not exactly lightweight; most women would have had difficulties holding it. But Morgana had trained with longswords meant for the use of strong men since childhood and could easily bear the raven’s weight. She smiled in satisfaction and turned her full attention to the bird. With Cwén this close, she could feel the tingling warmth from the silver flask hanging upon its delicate chain, even through the heavy silk of her gown… the tingling of magic that bound them to each other.

Closing her eyes, she blotted out all awareness as she cleared her thoughts. Cwén’s claws tightened around her forearm as the connection was established. She felt the air rush around her, like some kind of magic wind, and in the darkness of her closed eyes a slowly moving vision came into sight. She forced Cwén’s small mind to focus, something the bird would not do on its own, until a glimmer in the shadow of its memory appeared.

Seeing through Cwén’s eyes was still new and exciting, although the raven’s mind was not terribly organized… or very clear. Camelot looked surprisingly small from the bird’s eye perspective. Soaring above the turrets, glittering like white diamonds in the dull reddish light of the setting sun, she watched the empty streets of the lower town. Although they were still an hour before the official curfew, there were fewer people on the streets than usual, and looking down at them from a great height through Cwén’s vision, they were reduced to little more than isolated spots of colour and movement in the general greyness of the falling dusk.

Suddenly, the town lunged upwards, straight towards her, and her stomach lurched. She was floating in the chilly evening breeze, twice the height of the tallest tower. In her mind, she saw the outer walls of the castle, up-slope and to her left. That was enough for her to realize that she was gliding over the merchant district inside the town walls and was heading to the courtyard of the Citadel.

Much of the damage caused during the siege had been repaired already, and she could not help but be impressed. Here and there, though, a crumbled wall, a burnt orchard, a torn and blackened roof could still be seen. There was still much to do, but that was not her concern. She would let Arthur repair the damage for her and return triumphantly when the work was done.

A patrol wearing the chain mail and the red surcoats of the Castle Guard marched into view, and Morgana was surprised to recognize in the bearded young knight leading them Sir Kay du Bois, Arthur’s cousin. What was _he_ doing in Camelot? He had not set foot in the town for… for at least five or six years! Arthur must have been desperate to replace his lost knights if he was accepting his greatest rival in their ranks.

She wondered briefly if Sir Kay would have followed _her_ summons. If he would have supported _her_ reign, had she called for him. Probably not. He was related to Arthur through Queen Ygraine – he had not kinship binding him to _her_. Besides, men would always support men when it came to the struggle for power.

She caught a glimpse of Arthur himself, too, standing atop the great stairway leading up to the main entrance of the royal wing, clad in his long leather coat against the chill of the evening, but without his sword or mail shirt or any of his royal insignia. He was chatting up Gwen, of all people; that little upstart wearing the elegant, pale rose gown of a court lady, probably thinking that she looked all fine and lady-like in it. In truth, she looked _cheap_. In her own clothes she had been fairly pretty – trying to appear something she was clearly _not_ only made her appear ridiculous.

Not that Arthur would realize _that_ , of course. The little slattern was looking up at him coyly through demurely lowered eyelashes, but she smiled like a cat that had been in the cream. Arthur had that stupid, besotted look on his face that made him barely distinguishable from a lovesick sheep.

Morgana shook her head in disgust. Was the royal idiot truly so blinded that he would wed a lowly servant… and one who had her eyes on another man at the same time? _Everyone_ in Camelot knew that Gwen was keeping that renegade knight warm – what was his name again, Leoncet? no, Lancelot! – just in case her scheming to ensnare the Crown Prince failed. What _was_ it with her and men falling for her anyway? Even Merlin had seemed to be under her spell, and as a rule, Merlin was more concerned with keeping Arthur alive than chasing girls.

It did not matter, though. Morgana wished Leoncet or Lancelot or whatever his true name might be good luck with Gwen; but she would certainly _not_ allow Arthur to marry the little trollop. There could not – _would not_ – be two Queens in Camelot.

In order to prevent _that_ from happening, though, she would need to know everything that was going on in Camelot. Eventually, she would need other sources in the Citadel, as Cwén could do nothing else but see for her, but for the moment, that would be enough. She would reach out to old acquaintances later, when the vigilance of Arthur and his knights had lessened. She still had people among the servants who kept their allegiance to her. Until then, watching would have to do.

Morgana opened the window again and settled Cwén on the ledge. The raven cocked its head, watching her with one eye. Morgana forced her thoughts into its mind, reinforcing the image of Arthur and Gwen, urging the bird out again to find them and, this time, watch them until dawn drew near. If they met under the guise of darkness, she wanted to know.

Only when Cwén lifted from the ledge in a black flutter of feathers did she realize that something was missing from the images shown her through its eyes. Merlin had been nowhere to be seen. Merlin, who never swayed from Arthur’s side, not even if _ordered_ to stay away, was now apparently missing.

Now, where could he have gone and, most importantly, why?


	6. The Valley of the Fallen Kings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter in which both series canon and legendary background get a serious twist. So does the mythology, which does have some Celtic roots but has otherwise been made up by me. I hope it will make sense in the context of this story, though. 
> 
> I couldn’t figure out where the Lake of Avalon, the Valley of the Fallen Kings and Lord Godwyn’s castle are situated within the series’ geography, so I just chose a random direction – except that the Lake, of course, had to be in the West.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 06 – THE VALLEY OF THE FALLEN KINGS**

The object of Morgana’s curiosity was, in the meantime, riding through the forests south of the Lake of Avalon, heading northwards, with one thoroughly confused knight as his company.

“Would you mind telling me _something_ about these Fallen Kings before we blunder headfirst into their cursed valley?” demanded Lancelot in mild exasperation.

“You’re asking _me_?” returned Merlin with wide-eyed – and quite obviously false – innocence. I’m just a farm boy, remember? I hadn’t even heard about them until recently, when Arthur dragged me into the blasted Valley, half a year or so ago.”

Lancelot eyed him suspiciously. “Now why would he drag you into a cursed valley?”

“We were being chased through the woods,” explained Merlin unhappily. “As usual, whenever the royal prat gets the glorious idea to go hunting.”

“Oh, yeah.” Lancelot had heard of such adventures and couldn’t help but smile. “Everyone in Camelot knows that whenever the two of you venture outside the castle gates, you inevitably run into footpads.”

“It’s Arthur’s fault, really,” insisted Merlin. “He _knows_ I hate hunting – and yet he insists on taking _me_ with him every time, instead of the castle’s huntsmen, who would actually be of some use… just to make my life miserable. Only this time it wasn’t footpads chasing us. This time, they were mercenaries.”

“Is there a difference?” asked Lancelot, and Merlin nodded energetically.

“Oh yes, there is! Footpads are easy. They’re unorganized, and they get bored with the chase after a while. Also, they’re superstitious and would never enter a cursed valley.”

“Which was the reason why Arthur sought refuge exactly there.” Lancelot was getting the gist of the story.

“Yeah.” Merlin’s face darkened with unpleasant memories. “But, as I said, this time our pursuers were mercenaries, and those won’t shy back from a cursed valley.”

“They followed you right in?” guessed Lancelot.

“They followed us right in; and then they shot Arthur in the back with an arrow,” Merlin sighed. “After that, they simply left; their orders must have been to kill Arthur, plain and simple. We never figured out who had hired them, but my guess would be King Odin.”

“Not Cenred or Morgause or both?” asked Lancelot in surprise. Merlin shook his head.

“They wouldn’t have granted him such a quick and clean death. They’d have wanted him to suffer first. Odin just wanted to see him dead, to avenge his son, and since his assassin had failed last year, he tried a different approach.”

“But apparently, the mercenaries failed, too,” said Lancelot. “The arrow wound couldn’t have been fatal, or you wouldn’t have been able to heal it.”

“I couldn’t,” replied Merlin grimly. “For some reason, I seem unable to heal Arthur with my magic. Other people, yes – like I’ve healed the broken arm of my mother – but never Arthur. It is truly strange.”

“Perhaps not,” said Lancelot thoughtfully. “Have you ever been able to heal yourself?” Merlin shook his head mutely. “There you are, then. Perhaps the two of you are bound too tightly by destiny. Perhaps the same forces that won’t allow you to heal yourself don’t allow you to heal him, either. Couldn’t that be?”

“Perhaps,” allowed Merlin, though he didn’t seem completely persuaded. “Although I never heard of something like that. I’ll have to ask Gaius once we get back. He knows a great deal about the strangest things.”

“And yet he never told you about the Fallen Kings,” teased Lancelot.

“There was never a reason for him to do so,” replied Merlin with a shrug. “They’re dead; have been for at least two hundred years. I’m surprised that _you_ haven’t heard about them, though. You’re the one with the noble birth; and it has been my experience that nobility values the tales about past glory and feeds them to their children.”

“They likely would have done so, had my nurse not chosen the moment of greatest despair to steal me and raise me as any other country lad.” Lancelot’s face was hard like grey stone. “So forgive me if my education doesn’t quite meet your expectations.”

“I don’t know if I can,” returned Merlin, completely unfazed by his mood, eyes twinkling merrily. “I’ve got a reputation to consider, you know. After all, I usually keep company with princes, great ladies and the noblest knights of Albion.”

For a moment Lancelot tried to glare at him, but as that tactic never worked for Arthur, either, he didn’t really have any other choice than to laugh. Merlin laughed with him, content with his efforts to lighten his friend’s mood, and then Lancelot picked up the conversation again.

“So, you really don’t know anything about the Fallen Kings?”

“Actually, I do know quite a bit, but not from Gaius,” Merlin grinned at him. “It was one of Arthur’s lecturing moments when he explained it to me. Perhaps he wanted to impress me with the most heroic deeds of his ancestors; as far back as he could count them.”

Lancelot snorted. “As if that would ever work with you!”

“Not very likely,” agreed Merlin readily enough. “In any case, according to his royal pratliness, the Fallen Kings were all the scions of an ancient family of sovereigns; a family called the House of Don.”

“The Sun God of the Old Religion,” murmured Lancelot, and Merlin nodded.

“Yeah. They all had their petty kingdoms, every single one of them, and ruled under the overlordship of a High King. The last High King was apparently someone by the name of Rhydderch.”

“The one who had the old castle built in the first place?” asked Lancelot. “The one where the Round Table originally stood?”

“The very same,” said Merlin. “He was also the one who founded the Brotherhood of the Round Table, unsurprisingly. Now, Master Geoffrey told me that the House of Don had fought a long, embittered war against the House of Llyr…”

“… the Sea Goddess of the Old Religion,” Lancelot finished for him.

“Exactly,” agreed Merlin. “No source can tell for certain what the cause of the war had been – perhaps it had something to do with the battling elements of fire and water, I’m not really sure – but the fact is that both sides used magic heavily, and in the end, only one family remained standing on each side: King Vortigern’s from the House of Don and King Leodegrance’s from the House of Llyr.”

“Wait a minute!” Lancelot stopped him. “Wasn’t King Vortigern Uther’s father?”

“His great-grandfather, actually, unless I’m mistaken,” corrected Merlin. “The ‘Son of Vortigern’ is only an honorary title. But yes, Uther _is_ the descendant of the Kings of old – and so is Arthur.”

“And what about the descendants of Leodegrance?” asked Lancelot. Merlin shrugged.

“No-one seems to know what happened to them when Leodegrance supposedly fled to Cymru, more than two hundred years ago. Legend says, however, that all daughters of the House of Llyr were great enchantresses, while the sons of the House of Don were all great war-leaders. And that there could only be peace in a united Albion if the last son of the House Don wed the last daughter of the House Llyr.”

“That would mean, though, that Arthur must marry a sorceress,” commented Lancelot. “Somehow I can’t see Uther condoning _that_.”

“Neither can I,” replied Merlin. “He must have known the ancient prophecy, though; why else would he have tried to get Arthur to marry Princess Elena at all costs?”

“That is something I’ve been wondering about, too,” admitted the knight. “Why Princess Elena of all people? There are countless petty kings in the neighbourhood with beautiful daughters of marriageable age, most of them richer and more powerful than Lord Godwyn. Why Elena, who’s said to be as far away from being a perfect princess as one could possibly be?”

“Because, if Master Geoffrey has his facts right, she _is_ descended from the House of Llyr, on her mother’s side,” answered Merlin. “Not from Leodegrance directly, true, but she still comes from the royal bloodline; and she’s most definitely not a sorceress. Uther must have thought her safe enough to fulfil the prophecy _without_ making allowances towards the use of magic.”

“I see.” Lancelot mulled over that bit of news for a while. “So that’s why she’s called a princess, even though her father is not a king?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re sure she’s not a sorceress?”

“Very sure. Were she one, the Sidhe would have had a much harder time keeping her under control,” Merlin smiled. “She’s not so bad, actually. Quite pretty, too – when she doesn’t forget to comb her hair or lace up her gown properly – honest to the bone and a great horsewoman. Arthur could have done a lot worse, had he not been… otherwise interested already.”

“You know, you’re making me curious,” commented Lancelot, suppressing the all-too familiar pain caused by the thought of Gwen with practised ease.

“You’ll get your chance to satisfy your curiosity,” promised Merlin. “We’ll ride by the Castle of Gawant on our way home; after all, we’ll have to rest _somewhere_ , and what better place for a Knight of Camelot than the fortress of a stout ally?”

“Speaking of a rest,” Lancelot glanced at the setting sun, ”don’t you think we should stop for tonight? We’ve ridden without halt since we left the Lake of Avalon, and I’m tired.”

“So am I, to be honest.” Merlin brought his horse to a halt and slid off the saddle with legs stiff from the long ride. “Let’s find a suitable campsite before it gets completely dark, shall we?”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Lionel, late-born and utterly spoiled son of the late Lord Leontes and his Lady Madelyn, was _not_ a happy young man. The mere idea that he, the younger brother of the First Knight of Camelot and scion of a family with almost-royal blood in its veins should serve in the infirmary would have been enough to make said almost-royal blood boil. 

That he should be dressing wounds, supporting the slowly recovering knights to the privy hidden behind each curtained bed in its own small niche, emptying the chamber pots when they were done, washing them as they still were too weak to take care of their personal hygiene alone – it was unimaginable. The fact that he had to do so while following the instructions of some middle-aged peasant woman from a rural village was only adding insult to injury. Even if that peasant woman was the court physician’s niece and mother to Prince Arthur’s personal manservant.

It wasn’t as if Mistress Hunith had been ordering him around out of spite or giving him unnecessary chores to do. But the tasks he was given _were_ menial, meant for a servant, not for a future knight, and Hunith seemed completely unimpressed by his birth and family, not showing him the due respect a mere commoner owed the son of a noble House.

“It must run in the family,” his eldest brother grinned the one time when Lionel tried to complain to him. “You should hear Merlin talk to Prince Arthur! I don’t think anyone else has ever dared to call him a dollop-head. Or a clotpole. And Gaius, for all that he is deferential to King Uther, is known to have said uncomfortable things straight to the King’s face, at times when other men would have been summarily beheaded for such boldness. Mistress Hunith is just true to her heritage, I suppose. Besides, she could easily be your mother; perhaps _you_ should consider showing _her_ some respect.”

With that, Leon clearly considered the matter closed and left, going to his many duties within the Citadel. Lionel understood that he could not expect any understanding from his brother and sought the alliance of his fellow squires instead. More so as they were supposed to train together in the afternoons, being beaten up by Master Gregory, the captain of the Castle Guard, every time… and with humiliating ease.

Gareth was the only exception. He actually managed to beat Master Gregory half the time, which was no small feat, even if he was the oldest and best-trained among the squires. Few could even come close to Master Gregory’s skill with the blade; as the weapons master of the Guard, he _needed_ to be the best. But Gareth had apparently talked Sir Gwaine into showing him a few of his dirtier tricks, and that clearly helped a lot.

“You’ve asked _Gwaine_ to teach you?” exclaimed Lionel in shock. “A rogue and a notorious drunkard?”

Gareth gave him an unfriendly look. “That’s _Sir_ Gwaine to you, boy; and I don’t care who his parents were or what he’s done before. He’s the best swordsman I’ve ever seen, and that includes Prince Arthur _and_ Sir Kay. There’s no shame in learning from the best – you’ll see when Sir Lancelot returns.”

“I cannot wait,” muttered Lionel darkly. “Have you been assigned as Gwaine’s squire then?”

Gareth suddenly flashed him a wide white grin. “Oh, no… not _yet_ anyway, although I’m working on it. For now, though, Sir Kay sent me to the kitchens. Said I’d benefit from learning how food is prepared.”

“You? In the kitchens?” Lionel could barely speak from outrage. “But – but you’re the son of a _king_!”

Gareth laughed at his scandalized expression.

“The more reason not to let that fact go to my head,” he answered cheerfully. “Besides, the kitchens are a fun place. There may not be much food prepared these days – where is there? – but that only means that the maids have more time for a little tryst or other.”

With that, he laughed and headed back to the castle, leaving a frustrated Lionel behind.

“He’s right, you know.” Ivaneth, the oldest of the pages, just about to be promoted to a squire, walked up to Lionel, taking off his gambeson on his way. “Some of the maids are truly… generous when it comes to spreading their favours.”

“I don’t think Prince Arthur would approve if we started harassing the female servants,” said Lionel condescendingly, because Ivaneth was quite a few years younger than him and of considerably lower birth.

“No,” countered the page. “He prefers to _marry_ them these days.”

His scathing tone surprised Lionel, until he remembered that Ivaneth had been the personal page and a trusted aide of the Lady Morgana for years. That he had to perform the same duties around Gwen now would surely grate at him. While Gwen had _not_ moved into the Lady Morgana’s abandoned chambers – _that_ would have been truly pretentious, and besides King Uther would never tolerate it – she was given her own rooms in the court ladies’ wing. Ivaneth, who had once served the King’s Ward, had now been assigned as _Gwen_ ’s page until his promotion – to someone who had served the same lady… only below him.

Lionel had grown up with Gwen and quite liked her, despite the differences in birth and rank that, in his opinion, should never be bridged over. Nonetheless, he could understand Ivaneth’s frustration. He fought the same frustration every day. There he certainly had a potential ally.

“Lionel!” he heard his name called and had barely time to catch the sword his middle brother, Bors was tossing at him, complete with scabbard. “Leon wants you to take this to Sir Elyan’s smithy. Something or other with its balance; Elyan will know.”

“Why not to the royal blacksmith?” asked Lionel. The thought of a Knight of Camelot standing at the forge, hammering away on some bent piece of armour, made him uncomfortable.

“Because Elyan’s forge is the best in the whole of Camelot; and because Leon said to bring the sword to _him_ ,” replied Bors, waving to Sir Girflet who had come to spar with him. “You still remember where their house is, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, I’m not addled in the brain!” said Lionel indignantly. “I just…”

But Bors interrupted him. “Then I suggest that you move _now_ , before you’re needed in the infirmary again.”

Unlike Leon, Bors had very little patience with his little brother’s antics, and Lionel found it better to obey without any further argument.

“Come with me then,” he muttered to Ivaneth. “Let’s see what the noble knights of Camelot are doing in their spare time.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They left the Citadel through the southern gate and walked down to the lower town where most craftsmen had their shops and houses. The metalworkers’ street ran on the eastern side of the district, near the town wall, as they needed to keep a certain distance between their fire pits and the mostly timber houses perched tightly together. Aside from the blacksmiths and farriers, mostly bronzesmiths, weaponsmiths and armourers lived in this street, as related crafts always tended to stick together – partly for the safety in numbers and partly to keep a wary eye on the competition.

Elyan’s work area was near the end of the street, around a slight bend. Behind it a long, chest-high stack of split wood leaned against the fence. As a rule, every blacksmith would have preferred to use charcoal, but due to the recent turbulences, the charcoal burners (those who _hadn’t_ been killed, that was) just could not produce the required amounts. So even the smiths had to return to the use of firewood eventually, although it could not produce the same heat as charcoal.

The house of the blacksmith stood on the street front. Lionel had been there often enough in his childhood to recognize it. He remembered the back porch and the flower garden on one side; he had played there as a child with Master Thomas’ children… one of whom was now a knight and the other of whom might become his Queen one day. Another garden patch, this one for vegetables if memory served him well, was further back behind the stables. 

The whole place smelled of horse dung, charcoal and soot – typical for a blacksmith’s shop and stables. Lionel briefly wondered how it was that he could never pick up those smells around Gwen who, until recently, had lived here. How did women do that?

The house’s front door was closed and no smoke curled up from its pot chimney, so they passed along it and the second woodpile lining the fence on this side, back to the smithy: a small sandstone building with its door wide open to provide the smith with some light. As they entered, they found themselves in a surprisingly large room: the forge itself.

Despite the open door, its illumination came from the glowing forge mostly, which cast the room and the men working at the benches and fire pits in a sweltering glow. Tools and pieces of metal were spread across the workbenches, and the air was baked with the smell of iron and coal; Elyan was probably using up his late father’s last reserves of charcoal, as swords could not be properly forged by inferior heat.

When the two young squires entered the forge room Elyan looked up from the half-finished sword he was hammering and handed his tools to one of his helpers. He was wearing his coarse working garb and a long leather apron, his dark face glistening with sweat, his bare arms smeared with soot. In the red glow of the forge he had a strange, almost demonic look to him. Lionel had visited Master Thomas in his forge a few times but never before had he noticed the dark magnificence radiating from a smith’s strength and almost magical work that could turn glowing metal and stone to shining swords.

“Lionel,” said Elyan with a courteous nod. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

In their youth, even a year ago, he would have said _Master_ Lionel, as a commoner was supposed to call the still under-age son of a noble family. But due to Prince Arthur’s hasty decision to make of a simple blacksmith a knight, they were equals now. In fact, Elyan even outranked a squire, regardless of family or birth. Moreover, as a member of the Brotherhood of the Round Table, he even outranked most knights in the kingdom.

Lionel was well aware of that fact, and it did nothing to improve his already sullen mood.

“My brother sent me to bring you this sword,” he replied with a thinly-veiled scowl and showed the smith the weapon in question. “He says you’ll know what’s wrong with it.”

Elyan pulled the sword out of the scabbard and turned it back and forth a few times in the firelight; then he made a few experimental thrusts and slashes, his mouth twisting downwards unhappily.

“I see what he means,” he said. “The balance is off indeed. I don’t think it’s an error that occurred when the blade was made, though. Rather while the sword was repaired at some time in the past.”

“Can you hammer it out or something?” asked Lionel impatiently.

“Afraid not,” replied Elyan with a dark flash of his eyes. “It needs to be re-forged; the damage goes too deep. Tell Sir Leon that I’ll take a look at it as soon as I find the time – right now, we’ve got more urgent work to do.”

With that, he took back the tools from his helper and continued his work with the still glowing sword, the heavy hammer dancing in his strong hand, beating a strange, almost musical rhythm on the ringing anvil. The firelight painted his gleaming face the colour of molten iron.

Unable to deal gracefully with the fact that he had just been dismissed by a commoner, Lionel stomped off, red-faced and furious, Ivaneth hot on his heels. Benet, one of the journeyman blacksmiths who had fled to Camelot from an outlying village, looked after him thoughtfully.

“He has much pride and anger in him, that one,” he remarked. “You’d better keep an eye on him, Master Elyan.”

“He’s young and hot-headed,” replied Elyan with a shrug. “He’ll come down in due time. His brothers have, too. Now, see that you finish repairing those iron bonds on the apothecary’s strongbox. His apprentice will be here to fetch it within the hour.”

“You like her, don’t you?” asked Benet with a smile on his soot-smeared face. Elyan shrugged again, trying to look casual – and failing miserably.

“What’s there _not_ to like? She’s small but feisty; and she has a good head on her shoulders. How many girls get accepted as apprentice by an apothecary? Even if their father _was_ a physician.”

“I was right,” said Benet, his smile growing from ear to ear. “You _do_ like her.”

Elyan gave no answer, just hammered away on the glowing sword with all his might.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It took Merlin and Lancelot more than a week to reach the Valley of the Fallen Kings – mostly because Merlin had no clear memories of its location. Which was understandable, considering that last time – the only time he had actually been there – he had been running for his life, following Arthur blindly.

“Can’t you _do_ something to find the right direction?” asked Lancelot in exasperation, after they had come to a dead end for the fourth time in as many days. “You know, ask an oracle, cast a spell, call that dragon of yours to come and take us there... that sort of thing.”

“Kilgharrah is not a horse,” replied Merlin absent-mindedly, “and I don’t really think there would be any oracles in this godforsaken forest that we could ask. But I guess I _could_ try a tracking spell… although I’m not sure it will actually work.”

“Surely not, if you don’t even give it a try,” pointed out Lancelot with infuriating logic.

Merlin gave him a shrug and an embarrassed smile – he wasn’t used to doing magic in front of an audience, although he had to admit that it _was_ liberating that he could at least discuss it with Lancelot freely. Then he extended his hand, his fingers spread wide and concentrated.

“ _Beo pu lechte bewunden!_ ” he whispered in a harsh voice, his eyes flashing gold. “ _Scin scirl_!”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then one of the forking paths before them began to glow with a pale yellow light. To be honest, Merlin was greatly surprised that the spell had worked – it was one he had never tried before. Lancelot, on the other hand, looked as if he hadn’t doubted for a heartbeat that he would be able to do it.

“You really need more practice,” was all he said, already turning his horse to follow the gleaming path deeper into the darkening forest.

They followed the magical trail Merlin had conjured up for another day, with very short rests only, as Lancelot was worried about taking too long. To be perfectly honest, Merlin, too, was worried about leaving Arthur behind on his own, without protection. 

Without the protection only he could provide, that was – from any common danger his knights would protect him efficiently. Sir Leon would see to _that_. But in case of a _magical_ attack Arthur would be vulnerable. Even with his sorcerer’s skills rekindled, Gaius was simply not strong enough against Morgause _and_ Morgana in the long run. They could only hope that the sisters would lie low for a while yet. At least until Merlin could get back to Camelot.

So he was greatly relieved when, the next morning, the tracking spell finally led them to familiar territory. The track of pale light ended directly before a narrow archway that seemed like a mere fissure in the enormous, weathered rock-face, between two great pinnacles or pillars of stone, carved in the shape of two knights, clad in old-fashioned scaled armour the likes of which had not been used in Camelot for many hundred years.

Tall and sheer and ominous they stood there, upon either side of the narrow gap in the rock, rising like towers above the two riders. Giants they seemed to Lancelot, vast grey figures silent and forbidding, and still they preserved, through the forgotten years of a fallen kingdom, the likenesses in which they had been hewn. With wide-spread legs they stood there, their blurred eyes turned to the entrance with never-ceasing watchfulness, their longswords pointing towards the ground.

“The Immortal Guardians,” whispered Merlin. “I’ve read about them in one of Master Geoffrey’s forbidden books; the ones kept in the secret chambers of the library. Legends say that these were carved by the hands of giants, and that the court sorcerers of the House of Don planted a mighty spell within their stone hearts. As long as the spell was renewed every twelve years, no-one could enter the Valley without the Kings’ leave. After the fall of the House Don, however, the protection spell lost its power, as no-one remembered the words to renew it.”

“So we can get in then?” asked Lancelot uncertainly. Merlin nodded.

“ _Anyone_ can get in, now that the spell has expired.”

“But if the Valley is cursed…” Lancelot began.

“It’s not,” Merlin interrupted him. “It’s just a superstition; a false memory of something that once blocked the way of any unwanted visitors. The Guardians have lost all their power – they’re just a memento of Camelot’s former power. Come on, we don’t have time to waste!”

He rode forth, through the narrow gateway between the mighty stone warriors. Even in the saddle, his head barely reached to their knees. The crumbling stone hands, grasping the sword hilts that had been fashioned in amazing detail, were bigger than his head. And yet he pressed on fearlessly, like someone who was coming into his own.

Perhaps he was, thought Lancelot, following him with a feeling of awe and vague dread. The Guardians might have lost their power, but he could still feel a high level of awareness emanating from their huge forms; and watchfulness and wrath. They might no longer be able to _protect_ the Valley, but great majesty they still wore, the silent wardens of a long-vanished kingdom, and they still seemed to know when someone entered it uninvited. 

The Valley had been a place of old, sometimes destructive magic, after all. Old wives’ tales, whispered from mouth to ear under the mantle of the night, stated that in some places that darkness had never been lifted. If that was indeed so, the only safe way to enter the Valley was probably in Merlin’s company.

The arched doorway led to a long, narrow path between sheer walls of grey, weathered rock. There were strange shapes half-carved out of the rock surface: faces and forms of people and creatures whose stories had been lost in the mists of myth. Lancelot was careful _not_ to look at them directly, just in case they, too, held some sort of enchantment. 

He had other things to worry about at the moment anyway. The path was, in fact, a stairway that led down to the Valley itself, made of flat stone steps not too close to each other, but even so, they had to dismount and lead their frightened horses on the reins. When they finally reached even ground at the lower end, Lancelot saw with concern that the magic path did not continue beyond the entrance of the Valley.

“Your tracking spell has expired,” he warned Merlin.

The warlock gave him a brilliant smile. “We don’t need it anymore. Where we’re heading is the birthplace of magic. I can feel its pull as we speak. All I have to do is to follow it.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Lancelot was still a tad skeptical about _that_ , but Merlin beheld right. They did find the narrow fissure in the rock wall that served as the entrance of the caves without further delay. It did not look very spectacular from the outside, Lancelot thought. He even said so, but Merlin just grinned.

“Wait till you’ve seen it from within. I was blown away when Taliesin showed me the way in.”

“Taliesin,” repeated Lancelot thoughtfully. “Do you think he’ll appear again?”

Merlin shrugged. “I don’t know; it’s hard to tell with a man two hundred years dead. He said our meeting had been long-expected and foretold many years ago – but he never spoke of any other, future meetings.”

“Perhaps he was only meant to guide you to the Cave and show you its purpose,” guessed Lancelot. “ _And_ to save Arthur’s life, of course.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Merlin. “We’ll see.”

They left the horses in a well-hidden little clearing nearby and entered the Cave. At first, there was almost complete darkness, and yet they could see that the walls were not rock on the inside but rows upon rows of blue and white crystals, glinting and glittering in a light that wasn’t even there. Perhaps it came from the crystals themselves; just barely enough for them to find their way in the cavernous subterranean labyrinth.

In any case, the place was awe-inspiring. Even Lancelot, who had little to no affinity for the supernatural, could feel the tremolo of ancient magic vibrating through every single shard.

Taliesin did not appear.

“This place is beautiful,” breathed Lancelot, barely able to map out the dimensions of the Cave in the darkness, although he had the impression that it must be enormous.

Merlin nodded. “Beautiful… and dangerous. Should the crystals choose to show you _anything_ , you must be very careful how to interpret what you’ve seen.”

“What do you mean if they choose to show me anything?”

“Taliesin told me that the future is hidden to all but a very few. It may be that you _are_ one such person – but it may be that you’re not. The crystals contain futures that are not yet born; if they reveal to you any secrets, they would be unique to you. But you must be really careful, for they are treacherous.”

“Do I hear the voice of experience speaking here?” asked Lancelot. He had not been told _everything_ that had happened during his absence from Camelot, but the bitter tone of his friend’s voice hinted of an unpleasant event.

He could rather feel than actually see Merlin nod.

“Gaius had warned me, just as I’ve warned you,” murmured the warlock. “But I was so determined to prevent something bad from happening that I didn’t listen. I nearly killed Morgana; then I made Kilgharrah mad at me by forcing him to help save her; and in the end, I could barely stop her from murdering Uther,” he sighed. “I thought I could alter the future, but instead, I caused it. I’ve made a _possible_ future become reality.”

“And yet you still chose to return here?” wondered Lancelot.

“What else could I have done?” replied Merlin simply. “The crystals can show me what _might_ happen. What I make of it is up to me.”

“That’s what frightens me, to be honest,” said Lancelot. “Are we truly meant to tinker with fate? Even someone as gifted as you are?”

“Perhaps not,” admitted Merlin. “But there’s no-one else who could do it.”

“Fair enough,” said Lancelot after a long moment of consideration. “Well we’re here. What now?”

“Now we wait,” answered Merlin.

Lancelot gave him a bewildered look. “What for?”

“For the crystals to show us whatever they choose to reveal,” Merlin told him calmly.

There was nothing else they could have done, after all.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Princess Elena, the Lady of Gawant, woke up in a really good mood. To tell the truth, she had been in a fairly good mood ever since her father’s failed attempt to get her married to Arthur Pendragon, the Crown Prince of Camelot. Whatever that old court physician of King Uther’s might have given her on the morning of her failed wedding, it seemed to have made her a completely new person. Not only had it cured her of her wind problem and her strange cravings (she now bodily shuddered at the memory of eating frogs), she seemed to become less clumsy with each passing day.

While before the only thing she had been able to perform flawlessly was riding, now she suddenly found herself capable of dancing quite gracefully, which was a pleasant surprise. Her hair, always unruly and often dry and brittle like straw, was now silky and shiny and stayed within the confines of combs, nets and other headdresses. Her embroidery had greatly improved since she wasn’t stabbing herself with the needle at the most unexpected times. She even had begun to practice with the hunting bow again and quickly became better at it than ever before.

She was still awestruck by her own new, improved looks, all well-dressed, well-groomed and graceful. When she looked into the mirror, she saw what she had never seemed to be before: a perfect princess. She wished her mother could see her now.

Or Grunhilda… even if Grunhilda would find the idea of a perfect princess perfectly boring. She really missed Grunhilda at times. Her tiny nurse might have been a little odd – some people said she hadn’t even been a woman at all, but a strange, magical creature up to no good – but she had fond memories of her. Grunhilda had always been there for her, had always covered her mistakes, had taken care of her, entertained her, encouraged her, kept her company. They had had so much fun together!

She felt a bit lonely without Grunhilda. She loved her father with all her heart – she would have married Arthur Pendragon just because she knew how important it was for her father to cement the old, unofficial alliance between Camelot and Corbenic – and she knew the feeling was mutual. But her father, King of Corbenic in all but crown and title, was a very busy man, ruling and protecting their small realm, and had little time for her. Grunhilda, on the other hand, had _always_ been there for her. She had been the closest thing to a mother Elena had ever known.

She had been looking for a tirewoman ever since their return from Camelot, but it was near impossible to replace Grunhilda. There were many women who wanted a place in the royal household, but none of them seemed to have what she wanted from a constant companion. She had only now begun to realize the many skills Grunhilda had possessed and how hard it would be to find those – or at least _some_ of those – in _one_ woman again.

The arrival of the elderly healer, Mistress Alys, a couple of weeks earlier had truly been a godsend. At first Elena had been a bit skeptical. Alys seemed too old to master the multiple tasks of being the tirewoman of a princess. But they really needed a good healer in Gawant, and she soon showed amazing skills in that area. Also, while she might not be as much fun as Grunhilda had been, she was a kind, calm person, with great knowledge that went far beyond that of a simple healer. Elena found that she enjoyed learning new things from her – or rather very old things, as the case might be.

Her grandson, the lad Gwilim, was a tad sullen, true. As if he had expected more from his life and been disappointed time and again. But he was good at handling the horses, and he turned out to be surprisingly good with that broadsword of his, too. So Lord Godwyn had appointed him as Elena’s personal groom, who was to go with her whenever she happened to leave the castle. More so as he seemed to have an almost uncanny ability to find his way back, no matter how lost they happened to get while hunting.

On this clear and chilly autumn morning, however, hunting wasn’t what Elena had on her mind. It was two days before _Oidhche Shamhna_ , the Eve of Samhain, today, and as preparation for that greatest of all festivals, she wanted – like all other maidens of Corbenic – to visit the holy well of Llyr that lay about a day’s ride from Gawant, to ask the local oracle about her future.

Unlike in Camelot, such a visit was perfectly acceptable in Corbenic. Lord Godwyn might have been an old friend and steadfast ally of Uther Pendragon; he was not even particularly fond of magical practices. But he did _not_ forbid his people to follow their old customs, as long as those did not do any harm.

Very old those customs were indeed, older than the Old Religion itself, and they came not from the cult of any forgotten gods but from the people’s unbreakable bond with the land in which they lived and which fed and sheltered them. And if the rituals gathering around the beginning of _An Geamhrad_ , the dark winter season of Corbenic, made people feel safe, Lord Godwyn saw no reason to rob them of that safety. It was not sorcery, after all. It was their way of life. It had been before the Kings of old had emerged, and it would still be there when even the memory of those Kings was long forgotten.

Elena had learned quite a few things from Grunhilda about the dual forces of existence: of darkness and light, night and day, cold and heat, death and life. She knew though that all that had only been the beginning. She might not be an enchantress as her ancestors had been, but as the last known daughter of the House of Llyr, it was her sacred duty to do everything in her power to ensure the safety of her people and that each new harvest would be a plentiful one.

That was a heavy burden for a young girl without a mother to guide her; moreso as it included finding a proper husband and bearing children – preferably a daughter, in whom the House of Llyr could continue. So she was going to the holy well of her mother’s family today, to consult the oracle and the Druids serving it, and try to catch a glimpse of the future. Even though Mistress Alys, who seemed to be well-versed in ancient lore, solemnly warned her to be careful.

“The _Oidhche Shamhna_ is the most sacred night of the year,” the wise old crone said; “and also the most magically potent one. It is the night when the boundaries between our world and the Otherworld are broken and the dead can return to the places where they have lived… which is why many of the ancient rites involve providing hospitality for dead ancestors.”

“Like putting out food and drink for the dead with great ceremony?” asked Elena, remembering having seen such odd practices among the simple folk. “Or leaving doors, gates and windows unlocked to give them free passage into the house?”

Mistress Alys nodded. “Exactly. Yet not all spirits are friendly, so you’d do better if you had your house warded against unwelcome visitors from the Otherworld.”

“But-but wouldn’t that involve _magic_?” asked Elena, more than a little shocked. While magic hadn’t been condemned in her father’s realm the way it had been in Camelot, it had become an ominous undertone when people spoke about it.

“It would,” admitted the crone. “Not all magic is evil, though, no matter what Uther Pendragon might say. And even if certain kinds of it _are_ evil – should you not be warded against it, instead of facing it unawares, like a lamb faces the shearer? Had your lady mother warded the house before your birth, she would have spared you a great deal of inconvenience.”

That was only true, of course. Although, if the Sidhe had not found a way to her, she’d never have met Grunhilda, whom she truly missed. That did not mean she wanted to repeat her mother’s mistake, though.

“What am I supposed to do, then?” she asked.

Mistress Alys brought her a strange charm: a ring made of willow-bark, from which crystals and feathers of various sizes and colours were hanging on thin ribbons.

“This is a dream catcher,” she explained. “The spirits can only enter your home through your dreams – this charm will filter out the malevolent ones and keep them away from you. Each of these crystals bears an elemental sign. When enchanted, they resonate and pacify the visiting spririts, letting through only the friendly ones. We’ll hang it up in your bedchamber to keep you safe.”

“What about Father and the others?” Elena worried.

“They’re quite safe,” said Mistress Alys. “They cannot serve as a gateway for the spirits; only a daughter of the House of Llyr can. The spirit guards people carve from turnips and set before their doors will take care of the rest.”

“So, can I go to the holy well and talk to the Druids, then?” Elena pressed on.

“You can – if that’s what you truly want,” replied the crone with a sigh.

“It is,” said Elena, her gentle face hardening in determination. 

Mistress Alys nodded. “Very well then. I shall send Gwilim with you. Mark my words: he’ll be of more use to you than a dozen knights. But you’ll have to return before the night of _Oidhche Shamhna_ falls upon us.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Merlin and Lancelot spent the whole night in the Cave, waiting. The crystals seemed in no particular hurry to reveal _anything_ , though, and the knight was getting impatient.

“Are you sure something will happen?” he asked. Merlin just nodded. “And what makes you so sure about that?”

“The fact that I’m _not_ leaving this place until it happens,” Merlin told him calmly.

“You think you can out-stubborn stone?” Lancelot couldn’t quite suppress a sarcastic laugh.

Merlin just shrugged. “If I have to… Besides, they’re _crystals_ , not stones.”

“Yes, because that makes such a big difference,” returned Lancelot – but suddenly he felt the breath catch in his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a gentle glow that had _not_ been there before. One of the crystals started to emanate a pale golden light. It was beautiful, like moonshine caught in glass, and as it reflected thousandfold from the other crystals, it illuminated every inch of the cavernous room, bathing it in unparalleled brilliance that was nonetheless soft enough not to hurt the eye. It was mesmerizing… a man could have gotten lost in there forever.

Lancelot shook his head to free himself from the crystals’ pull and looked around in slight confusion. “All right; where do we look?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Merlin quietly. “ _Any_ one of the crystals can show you the same images – _if_ they choose to do so.”

“Voice of experience again, huh?” the knight tried to jest, but Merlin just sighed.

“You have no idea my friend… All you have to do is to choose one of them and look at it… _really_ look. If there’s anything for you to know, it will be revealed.”

Lancelot shrugged and did as he had been told. He approached a randomly chosen crystal and tried to look into its unmoving depths. The crystal flashed, as if recognizing him, and its inside lit up with the same pale golden light – this time of its own – but that was basically it. He saw no pictures within.

“Would it be dangerous to _touch_ the crystal?” he asked, not quite willing to give up just yet.

“Most likely,” replied Merlin. “I never actually tried _that_ , but… no, Lancelot, don’t!” he cried out warningly, but it was already too late. 

Lancelot reached out to the crystal and touched it, wondering how it would feel. Light flashed immediately, like lightning, shot out at him and hit him in the chest with such force that he staggered backwards.

In the next moment, strange pictures flashed through his head. He saw an ancient castle on a rocky promontory, its round towers capped with lead. He saw the throne room of Camelot, decorated for a great feast, with Arthur and Gwen sitting side by side on twin thrones; Gwen was wearing Morgana’s crown. He saw a sweet-faced girl ride a temperamental white horse with a skill that would have put most knights to shame, her great sheaf of dark blonde hair floating behind her in the wind. He saw the same girl standing at an ancient well, talking to him, smiling at him in a way Gwen never had. In a way he had always wanted Gwen to smile at him: with love and longing.

Then everything went dark and he passed out on the floor of the Cave.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
To tell the truth, Merlin was a bit shocked when he saw Lancelot drop to the ground like a stone. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure whether he should hurry over to the unconscious knight and check him for injuries… but then he could feel the irresistible pull from deeper within the Cave. There was something he needed to see; he was very sure about that. Perhaps even some answers to be found. He _needed_ to go on.

Still, he could not leave Lancelot behind without knowing whether the knight had broken anything. So he did a quick check, noted with relief that neither skull nor ribs nor limbs seemed to be broken, nor could he see any bleeding wounds. So he turned back to where the magic pull was coming from. He recognized the rocky path – surprisingly enough, paved with flat, dark stones – that led down to further hidden depths. It was the same one along which Taliesin had led him not so long ago.

Learning from Lancelot’s misfortune, he was careful _not_ to touch the crystals, not even those that still seemed dormant. Luckily, there was no need for that. The crystals themselves provided enough light to see where he was going – well, more or less. This was a true labyrinth, and the myriad refractions on the crystal surfaces were not helping. The only way of orientation was to follow the pull of magic – not that he would have been able to resist it anyway.

And so it came that – after some uncertainty – he discovered a hidden archway on his left. Well, not as much _hidden_ as rather well-concealed among the crystal formations: just a narrow fissure that would probably have been overlooked without careful inspection… or without the strong pull of magic that had called him to this very spot. It was a passageway into another chamber of the cavern. One he had not seen during his first visit to the Cave.

One he felt sheer irresistible urge to explore, _now_.

After a quick look back over his shoulder, he ducked under the archway – and came into a relatively small chamber. It was roughly circular in shape, with a low ceiling that almost touched his head, and the crystals lining its walls were white. Sparkling white, like a sky so full of stars they blotted out the dark background.

Upon his entrance, they flashed awake, as if greeting and welcoming him, throwing uncounted rays of pale gold in all directions. A cavalcade of colours, pictures and scenes emerged within the crystals, as if he were looking at them through Gaius’ magnifying lens – and, unlike before, this time they were all different.

Merlin stepped into the centre of the chamber, slowly spinning to take in the different scenes as he would do when looking down at the lower town from the highest tower of Camelot. It was a most curious spectacle indeed.

There were Arthur and Gwen, sitting on the twin thrones as King and Queen, Gwen decked out splendidly in the most precious robes and wearing Morgana’s crown. But her eyes had turned completely black, like those of Alice, Gaius’ lost love, while under the spell of the manticore.

There was Morgana, standing on a battlefield, clad in shining armour like whenever she had ridden out with them on some adventure, with a huge, black raven sitting on her shoulder. Behind her, the ruins of the Castle of Fyrien rose ominously, and the battlefield around her was strewn with dead bodies, wearing the coats-of-arms of Camelot and Cenred’s realm, respectively.

There was Morgause, lying on something that seemed like a slab of crystal, dead or in some enchanted sleep – it was impossible to tell.

There was Gwaine, riding on his beloved steed Gringolet, his shield emblazoned with a five-pointed star, the points bearing the ancient symbols of frankness, fellowship, cleanness, courtesy and compassion. He looked very different from the vagabond Merlin had met in that tavern less than a year ago. He looked every bit the noble knight Merlin had always known lived somewhere deep behind the persona he usually showed.

There was a castle, strong and menacing with its square towers of grey, weathered stone. And in the graveyard behind it, there was a slab of stone, bearing a strange prophecy: _This slab shall never be raised by the efforts of any man’s hand, but by him who shall conquer this dolorous castle, and the name of that man is written here beneath_.

Then the gloved hand of a knight (if the arm in chain mail was any indication) lifted the slab effortlessly, revealing these words etched on its underside: _Here shall lie Sir Lancelot of the Lake, the son of Lord Ban of Benwick_.

There was Lancelot again, battling many knights and emerging victorious, to be escorted by an old servant into that grim castle.

The next image showed Gwen again, being attacked by masked men on her way somewhere; then her again, being escorted before a tall, dark-haired, richly clad man with a golden crown upon his brow and with more than a passing resemblance to the late King Cenred. Then her again, a third time, bound to the stake rising from the middle of a pyre, with a Knight of Camelot, whose face Merlin could not see, holding a burning torch to the pyre to light it.

There were Lancelot and Gwaine, facing each other with swords drawn.

Another image showed Percival, riding alone towards a gleaming castle, with servants of that castle coming out to welcome him with great honour.

Then he saw himself at a fountain in the middle of some strange forest: at a stone-lined pool, the water of which was bubbling, as if it would boil, and yet he showed no sign of pain when he dipped a beautiful chalice into the water, to pour some of that water onto a slab of stone. As soon as the water hit the stone, it promptly called down a thunderstorm… and with that thunderstorm, the crystals suddenly went dark again, barely illuminated by their natural glow.

For an indefinite length of time, Merlin stood in the darkened chamber, trying to make sense of what he had seen – only he could not. The only thing he felt strongly about was that he needed to return to Camelot, immediately. It seemed that Cenred had not been entirely without kin, after all, which meant that someone would come and claim his lordless realm, soon – and that someone would mean great danger for Arthur and his future Queen… especially with Morgana on the warpath and probably still hiding in the Castle of Fyrien, on the border of Cenred’s realm.

There were other aspects of the vision that he found highly alarming: those concerning Gwen and Lancelot and a possible deadly confrontation between Lancelot and Gwaine, the reason for which he could not even guess. All this only served to strengthen his decision to return home by the shortest possible way.

He also had the unexplained feeling that Lancelot was _not_ meant to return with him just yet. That made things a bit more difficult, as the knight would not be willing to let him ride through these dangerous woods alone.

Fortunately, Merlin had a way to get back to Camelot almost immediately. But that way was only open for him, not for any other man – or for horses. It was the perfect solution; all he needed to do was to make the knight see it the same way.

Ducking through the small passageway again, Merlin headed back to talk to his friend – and to see whether Lancelot needed any help.


	7. Encounters at the Holy Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the mythology – although based on Celtic roots – is largely made up by me. We continue on our alternate way of events.
> 
> Zulfiya was inspired by the “Robin Hood” character Djaq but is a completely different person here.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 07 – ENCOUNTERS AT THE HOLY WELL**

As expected, Lancelot was not easy to persuade to ride on without Merlin.

“I’ve promised your mother that I won’t let any harm come to you,” he protested.

“The way I’ll go will be safe enough,” said Merlin.

Lancelot frowned. “Then why can’t we both take that way?”

“Because the Great Dragon would only tolerate _me_ on his back,” answered Merlin simply. Lancelot stared at him, thunderstruck, opening and closing his mouth several times, yet unable to say a thing. Merlin nodded, grinning. “You’ll get your wish, my friend. You _will_ see a dragon, soon. But first let us share what we’ve seen in the Cave.”

“It wasn’t much,” admitted Lancelot, “and most of it didn’t make any sense.”

But he went on nonetheless and told Merlin about his vision. Merlin shook his head in bewilderment as he listened.

“You are right,” he said. “It makes very little sense; aside from the vision of Gwen being the Queen of Camelot. I’ve seen that image myself. It appears to be a predestined event… I’m sorry,” he added quietly, as he saw the pain flickering across his friend’s face.

Lancelot nodded. “That’s all right. I knew she would choose Arthur in the end – who wouldn’t? What else did you see?”

“A great many things that make even less sense,” confessed Merlin. “Two things seem clear, though: someone will come with a legitimate claim for Cenred’s throne, and Morgana will remain a serious threat. Which is why I need to get back to Camelot, by the shortest possible way.”

“Whilst I’m supposed to ride the long way across Corbenic,” said Lancelot unhappily. Merlin nodded.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to. If my visions are not mistaken, you’ll have your own adventures on the way back. Adventures that will earn you fame… but only if you face them on your own.”

“I’m not interested in fame,” scowled the knight. “I just want to fight for the right cause.”

“And that is what you’re going to do; but you need to follow your own destiny – just as I’m following mine,” replied Merlin. Then he added with a grin, “Besides, I need someone to bring back my horse, or Arthur will have my hide.”

“So _that_ is the fame I’m destined to earn,” said Lancelot in mock offence. “To become the stable boy of Prince Arthur’s manservant.”

“Hey, there’s no shame in good, honest work,” laughed Merlin. “Now, let’s get a bit further away from the Cave, so that I can summon Kilgharrah.”

Shepherding Lancelot before him, he left the Cave entrance and looked around for a suitable place. In a clearing that seemed large enough for a dragon to land, he stopped, threw his head back, and cried out in the Old Tongue in a clear, ringing voice.

“ _O drakon, e male so flengometta tesd’hup’ anankes_!”

This wasn’t the first time Lancelot had heard Merlin cast a spell – but never before had he actually _felt_ the power of it. The small hairs on his arm and on the nape of his neck stood on end, and he shivered. He understood, in theory, that the summoning spell of a Dragonlord would reach a dragon immediately, no matter the physical distance – he just could not imagine _how_ it was supposed to happen. And the thought of all that untamed power contained in Merlin’s slight body made him bewildered without end.

“There,” said Merlin suddenly, pointing at the eastern sky.

Before the reddish background of breaking dawn, a small, dark figure, shaped vaguely like a bat, could be seen. At first it wasn’t bigger than a dragonfly, but it grew quickly as it approached, its long, slow-beating, vaned wings, copper-coloured with a hint of green and almost transparent in the morning light, driving it closer at an amazing speed. A curl of smoke drifted behind it, like a dark streamer fluttering from the lance of a jousting knight.

“Is that a dragon?” asked Lancelot, completely awestruck, and Merlin nodded with a near-proprietary smile.

“That is _the_ dragon, my friend. Kilgharrah himself, the last of his kind.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The small tribe of Druids led by Iseldir (and his long line of ancestors before him) reached their winter quarters two days before the onset of _Oidhche Shamhna_ … just in time to prepare themselves for this greatest of all annual feasts. They had wandered from their summer quarters in Cenred’s realm to Corbenic for longer than any man could remember. Longer than any of the kingdoms of Albion had existed. 

They had been here long before the Houses of Don and Llyr had begun their long, bitter war for supremacy – the borders set up between the different kingdoms as a result of that war bothered them very little. They were the oldest inhabitants of this part of the world… and its appointed guardians. They were born _with_ magic and born _of_ magic, every single one of them, to various degrees, and they looked at other people dabbling in sorcery with forgiveness and mild concern. They were not _following_ the Old Religion, like court sorcerers, hedge witches and village healers. They _were_ the Old Religion, and going through its seasonal rituals was as natural to them as breathing.

Which was why they did not need much for life. They did not pursue power or riches or influence. They lived in unique harmony with the very earth, with nature’s changes and eternal rhythm, and that was enough for them. Unlike other magic users, who generally chose one element to build their acquired powers on, they united _all_ elements as a whole.

Sometimes Iseldir thought that the first breach in the great order of the world had been caused by the House of Don choosing fire and wind as the keystone of their power, while the House of Llyr chose water and earth. Magic, true magic, lived in _all_ elements; half of them trying to subjugate the other half could only lead to destruction. It was the very breach through which darkness and evil was seeping into the world.

Whatever sorcerers, witches and other magic users chose to believe, Iseldir, like others born with magic, knew that Uther Pendragon’s embittered crusade against everything magical was only the last, albeit perhaps most brutal, phase of that long twilight struggle that had caused the tear in the fabric of the world. And, unlike those who had _learned_ the use of sorcery by great efforts and wielded it as a weapon, Iseldir also knew that simply allowing the use of magic again would _not_ put an end to this ancient war. 

Only the union of the two warring Houses could heal that breach, uniting the warrior son of Don and the enchantress daughter of Llyr in the bond of marriage. Only a child born of that union could make the world whole again.

That was why a marriage between Arthur Pendragon of the House Don and Princess Elena of Gawant, from the House Llyr, would have never brought about that long-yearned-for peace. Elena, although a Princess of Llyr, had not inherited the magic of her mothers. In fact, King Uther’s efforts to unite the two Houses had nearly put a Sidhe Queen onto the throne of Camelot, and _that_ would have upturned the balance of power beyond repair. 

Not to mention that she did not deserve such a cruel fate. Iseldir knew the princess only fleetingly, but he found her oddly charming and had no ill wishes towards her. In fact, his foresight – such as it was in these late times – had repeatedly warned him that Elena might play an important role in the fight for a lasting peace.

The Head Druid still wondered sometimes how none of them had ever noticed that something was wrong with the princess. She had visited the Holy Well on all four great feasts regularly, although she had always been shielded from the Druids by that odd little nurse of hers. Now, having learned about the events regarding the failed wedding, he could understand _why_. Still, they should have noticed _something_.

At the very least, they should have recognized the nurse as a Pixie in disguise. The Sidhe Elder must have put a very powerful enchantment upon her to fool even the eyes of a Druid. Forridel, the guardian of the Holy Well during the last two years, had a good eye for the supernatural. It took a great deal of concealment to fool _her_ – but again, the Sidhe, ancient and powerful and belonging to both worlds, _were_ the masters of enchantment. Had Emrys not destroyed the Sidhe Elder… Iseldir shuddered, imagining the possible consequences.

But Emrys _had_ interfered in the last moment, and the danger from the Sidhe had been averted… for the time being. Right now, they had other concerns. Prince Arthur had been warned, the Cup of Life had been brought to safety, and they could finally concentrate on healing the wounds of war… again.

Heartened by the feeling of coming home, Iseldir headed for the caves that served as the winter quarters of his tribe.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Lancelot’s heart was beating in his throat as he watched the dragon alight in the small clearing, filling it almost completely with its huge, scaled body. Where it came down, its talons tore deep grooves in the soil. It furled its wings with the rustling of a cold breeze upon dry autumn leaves and shifted its weight to assume a more comfortable position. It appeared heavy on the ground, not lithe and free as when it had flown upon the wind – and yet there was a sinister grace in the slow pacing of its great, taloned feet and the coiling of its thorny tail as it tried to find a way to fit into the clearing _and_ look Merlin in the eye at the same time.

Finally, it managed to draw its legs beneath itself, and it bent its huge head slightly, glancing down with large, yellow eyes at the two tiny figures before it from a height of at least ten feet. Those eyes had slanted black pupils. Reptile eyes. Just like the way its sword-toothed mouth curled up at the corners in an eternal smile. Lancelot briefly wondered what a dragon – especially the last of its kind – had to smile about, but then he decided he did not really want to know. Some things were better left alone.

All such considerations were forgotten, though, as the dragon opened its mouth and _spoke_. Its voice, too, was huge, yet surprisingly soft, like the melodic rumble of a distant storm, and its breath smelled like a blacksmith’s forge. Its nostrils, stained with red dust, just like its eye-socket and jowl, widened while it spoke, so that the banked and stifled fire visibly glittered deep within.

“And so we meet again, young warlock,” it said. 

That was a fairly strange greeting, but Merlin did not seem bothered by it. Not in the slightest.

“Don’t we always?” he replied, grinning.

The great, scaled head swung around and the yellow eye of the dragon stared down at Lancelot with what could only be called amusement… well, sort of.

“You don’t usually bring others when you summon me,” it commented dryly.

Merlin followed its look and waved generously. “Oh, this is Lancelot. He knows about me… about _what_ I am. Has known for years now.”

There was a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to come from the belly of the very earth. It took Lancelot a moment to realize that the dragon was _laughing_.

“Young warlock,” it said, its amusement now undeniable, “ _no one_ knows for certain _what_ you exactly are. Not even me. You are something very special and unique. It pleases me, though, that you no longer need to hide your true nature from everyone. Now, tell me: why are you here and what do you want from me?”

“I needed to consult the crystals in the Cave,” answered Merlin honestly.

The dragon blinked; it looked as if a bright fire had been veiled by a translucent screen for a moment.

“A courageous choice… yet not without peril,” it commented. “The crystals are treacherous.”

“So I’ve been told,” said Merlin with the bitterness of past experiences. “So have I learned through experience myself. But I saw no other way to find guidance. And _what_ I saw made me want to return to Camelot as quickly as possible.”

For a moment, the dragon remained silent; only its breath puffed out of its wide nostrils like tiny clouds of smoke.

“What _have_ you seen in the crystals?” it then asked.

“Morgana,” admitted Merlin reluctantly. “And someone who looked a lot like Cenred… yet it wasn’t him, I think.”

“No,” said the dragon. “I imagine it would be his twin brother, Prince Meleagant, the future King of Caerleon.”

“Cenred had a brother?” Merlin didn’t know why he was so shocked, but everyone seemed to believe that Cenred had no living kin whatsoever. Neither had anyone ever mentioned that Cenred had originally been from Caerleon.

“Not many know, as Cenred’s true name was Melwas,” the dragon told him. “He was the younger of King Baudemagus’ twin sons. Meleagant was the Crown Prince, the heir apparent, and as he could not hope to rise to power in his own land, Cenred left Caerleon at a very young age, changing his name to keep his true identity secret, and set out on a quest to conquer Camelot. Or to destroy it, should he be unable to conquer it.”

“As revenge for the war Caerleon lost against Camelot.” Merlin started to understand things. _That_ certainly explained Cenred’s ongoing hostility towards Uther and his realm.

The huge, copper-scaled head dipped briefly in a nod.

“Yes, young warlock. His brother is still waiting for their father to die and vacate the throne – the eternal heir, always taking second place. Cenred, on the other hand, had built a strong realm for himself, with sword and sorcery. Now that he is dead, Meleagant might see his chance to finally become King, without waiting for his father’s death.”

“So he _will_ come to take over Cenred’s orphaned realm,” murmured Merlin. “And he will bring an army with him, and Camelot is broken and vulnerable. I must go back and warn Arthur!”

Again, that slow nod from the dragon. “That you must, young warlock, for Camelot is in great danger indeed.”

“So, are you going to take me home, then?” asked Merlin, flashing the huge creature one of those dimpled smiles, making Lancelot wonder whether the puppy-eyed routine, against which Arthur seemed completely helpless, would work on dragons, too.

The dragon snorted, nearly knocking them over with the gust of it. “I told you, Merlin: I am _not_ a horse!”

“I don’t need a horse,” replied Merlin with an unrepentant grin. “I have a perfectly good one already, but it would take me weeks to reach Camelot on horseback. I don’t _have_ that much time.”

“No, you don’t,” said the dragon in agreement.

Then it reached out with a great, taloned foot.

At first Lancelot thought it would try to attack Merlin, and reached for his sword instinctively. But the dragon simply set the foot down, right before Merlin, like a step, and Merlin clambered onto it without hesitation. From there, he nimbly climbed onto the crook of an elbow joint above, as if he would climb a tree – the proportions were roughly the same. Then onto the shoulder joint, where the scaled skin was wrinkled with age and scarred from old battles. Then onto the musculature of the wing above the shoulder, where it sprang from the shoulder blade, like ascending a large, steep four-step stairway.

He was clearly not doing this for the first time.

Up there, in front of the wings and behind the first of the huge dorsal spines, in the hollow of the dragon’s long neck, there was just enough space for a rider to sit astride – if he was mad enough to try. _And_ if he had the powers of a Dragonlord to control his winged steed.

Making himself comfortable in that natural seat, Merlin grabbed with one hand the huge thorn right before him for leverage, holding the Sidhe staff in the other one, and looked down at a still stunned Lancelot.

“You can make it to the Castle of Gawant within the day,” he said. “Lord Godwyn will take in any Knight of Camelot gladly. You can stay and rest there as long as you want. I’ll explain to Arthur what happened.”

“Why am I not relieved by that thought?” muttered Lancelot. He liked and highly respected Merlin, he really did, but Merlin’s explanations usually did _not_ calm Arthur down… on the contrary. Of course, this time _Merlin_ would be the one to bear the brunt of the Prince’s displeasure…

Merlin’s thoughts were already elsewhere. ”Farewell, my friend,” he said. “Be safe… and come back as soon as you can.” Then he patted the dragon’s neck. “Take me home, Kilgharrah!”

With a grating noise that sounded like metal rubbing against metal, the huge, copper-coloured dragon rose onto its crooked legs, seeming almost shockingly graceless as it sought the best position to set off. Then it unfolded its great, leathery wings carefully, lest it unseat its rider.

“I suggest you back off a little, Sir Knight,” it growled softly. “I shall need all available space here.”

Lancelot hurriedly obeyed, not wanting to be trampled down. The dragon placed its taloned feet carefully, gathered its great back haunches like a cat, and leapt into the air, seemingly without the slightest effort. Its great wings beat down and bore Merlin above the morning fog that was still drifting over the Valley of the Fallen Kings in thin swathes. Rowing with those enormous wings, the long, thorny tail coiling behind, Kilgharrah, the last of the Great Dragons, wheeled out over the vast forest, turned to the south, where, out of even its eyesight, Camelot lay behind the mountains, and carried the last Dragonlord off.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The Holy Well of Llyr stood in plain sight of the entrance to the caves that served as winter quarters of Iseldir’s tribe, which was no coincidence. It had been the most sacred place of their ancestors, guarded and taken care of by them for times immeasurable. Certainly long before the House of Llyr had claimed the lands that would later become Corbenic as their own. And though they had laid claim upon the Well, too, giving it the name of their own House, in truth it had always been an ancient Druidic place and would always remain one, as long as a single Druid still drew breath within these borders.

It was not a spectacular one as sacred places went: just a considerable open space in the midst of a wide area covered by a wood of oak, beech and holly. In the centre of this glade rose a hillock, so regular that one could see it had been raised by the hands of men rather than by some force of nature. On the summit of that hillock there still remained part of a circle of rough, unhewn stones, twice the height of the tallest man – a roofless sanctum, from where the Druids of old had watched the moving of the stars. 

Seven of those stones stood upright, grey and weatherworn but still enduring. The rest had been dislodged from their place during one or other of the past battles that had swept over this area, and lay, overturned and broken, near their former site or on the other side of the hill. One large boulder had even rolled down to the bottom, into the path of a small brook that ran around the foot of the hill, bubbling away merrily as it overcame the hindrance.

Despite its modest appearance, the Well – basically the source of that brook, which sprang forth from under a stone archway on the side of the hillock, where it was collected in a stone basin and allowed to overflow and find its way as it pleased – was a much-valued one among the people of Corbenic. Its water was famous for its healing properties, especially against infertility, madness and various skin conditions, and people came from far away to drink it or to bathe in it.

But even more importantly, on the eve of the four traditional festivals, on solstices and on Twelfth Night, blue mist rose from the stone basin, and those with magic could see glimpses of the future in that mist.

Due to the Well’s importance as a gateway to the Otherworld, it could only be visited for healing and rituals on certain acknowledged days. Only its guardian, who lived in the caves all the time, was allowed to visit it every day. _Required_ to do so, in fact, as it was her duty to see that the Well was kept clean and undisturbed. 

Being chosen as the guardian of the Well was a great honour and showed the ultimate trust of the Elders towards the chosen person. The price paid for that honour – loneliness – was considered a small one.

Forridel had borne that honour for almost two years now. Ever since Prince Arthur’s manservant – she had not known him as _Emrys_ , the promised one, back then – had helped her to escape Camelot, where she had lived as a simple herbalist… and as the eyes and ears of her tribe. She had accepted the duties of guardian willingly, although there were times when she still yearned for her old life in Camelot. She missed a little the colourful cavalcade that life in a lively town could be, and she missed her friends and neighbours, who – while they had not known the true extent of her powers – had quickly come to depend on her as a healer and had often visited her to share their concerns with her.

Sometimes she wondered what might have become of them without her help but abandoned such thoughts hurriedly. They were no longer her concern. She had other duties now.

Yes, life as the guardian of the Holy Well was a lonely one; but at least her tribe had come home for the winter, and she could hope for long talks with her old friend and mentor Iseldir again. She had missed him even more than she had missed her old life.

She sought him out with her eyes and soon found him, walking among the other Elders in the middle of the group. He did not look any different from always… at least not at first sight. But as he came gradually closer, she could see that the lines around his mouth had become deeper, harsher, and his wise eyes were full of sorrow. Perhaps the harvest season had _not_ been so good for the tribe, after all.

She wished with all her heart that she could help him. That she could ease his concerns, smooth those lines etched so deeply into his face. That she could lift his burden just a little and give him some peace. But she knew she could not. Being the head of the tribe was a task every bit as lonely as guarding the Well.

But at least he was at home again – they had all come home. Soon, there would be a great bonfire roaring in the ancient fire pit in the woods, and the tribe would huddle together in the warm, dim caves. Old tales would be told, new tidings would be exchanged, auguries would be taken. And perhaps the new year, born out of the darkness of _An Geamhradh_ , would bring forth the long-desired peace.

Forridel rose from the stone bench facing the Well – the traditional place of the guardian – and went to greet her returning brethren with a spring in her step and with renewed hope in her heart.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Hunith put her basket down for a moment and pressed a hand against the small of her back to ease the small but insistent tingle along her spine. She had come out to pick berries in the forest near Camelot in the grey hour just after daybreak – that was the best time to actually _find_ some before the birds and the beasts ate them. 

Even so, she had not been terribly successful. Her basket was less than half full, and she needed to return to town if she wanted to bake that berry tart – Merlin’s favourite, for which she had been saving what little flour she could get in exchange for her skills as a herbalist – before she was needed in the infirmary again.

William had been reluctant to let her go alone, saying that the woods weren’t safe yet, and that she could get in trouble. She knew that, of course; she knew he was right. But she _needed_ to be alone – alone with her memories – at least for a short while. She was homesick, and those were memories she could not share with a stranger. Not even with William, who was on the best way to becoming like a son to her.

Back in Ealdor, the herders would have been leading the cattle and sheep down from their summer hillside pastures to the shelter of stable and byre by now. The hay to feed them during the winter would have already been stored in sturdy, thatched shelters, tied down securely against the storms. Those selected for the table would have been slaughtered soon. All the harvest – barley, oats, wheat, turnips, apples – would have been gathered in. Peat and wood for winter fires would be stacked high by the hearth, and family and friends would be gathering in the houses to tell stories and divine the events of the coming year, using hazelnuts – the symbols of wisdom – to foretell the future.

That had been the way of doing things in Ealdor, right before the onset of winter, for as long as people could remember. But Ealdor was no more. She lived in a town with different customs now – and even Merlin was gone to face unknown dangers, and there was nothing she could do to protect him.

She missed him, her strange and wonderful and precious child who could move things with his mind before he could even speak – and who would confront a sorceress and free a chained dragon, just to save her. Even though the years in Camelot _had_ changed him, she could still feel the inherent goodness in him, the innocence that – albeit marred now – was his very nature. 

He might defeat whole armies with a single word one day; to her, he would always remain that bright-eyed child with his innocent joy in the fantastic things he could conjure up to amuse her – like butterflies on a cold winter morning or flowers on a rainy autumn day. And that was why she would bake his favourite pie, like she always had for _Oidhche Shamhna_. Even if she had to use the stale flour left in the bottom of the drawer in the royal kitchens. Even if the amount of berries she had found was woefully inadequate to fill a small pie.

Even if Merlin would not even be there to eat any of that pie.

“Mistress Hunith?” a sweet, child-like voice called somewhere behind her.

She turned and saw the apothecary’s apprentice, presumably sent by her master to gather herbs, standing some distance away. She was a short, round-faced, olive-skinned girl with jet-black hair and huge, dark eyes; the daughter of a southern healer from a land beyond the Sea who had been brought to Albion as a slave, together with his family.

“What is it, Zulfiya?” asked Hunith tiredly. She liked the girl, who was bright and eager to learn, but right now, she did not feel like giving her another lesson in herb lore.

“You should not come to the woods alone,” said the girl, looking at her earnestly with those enormous eyes.

Hunith smiled at her. “Look who’s talking!”

The girl shook her head. “I’m not unprotected; and I can run better in these clothes than you in that long dress.”

Indeed, she was wearing men’s clothes, as always when she left town, hiding her thick hair under a saggy hat. She also wore a long dagger on her belt, and Hunith knew she could wield it quite well.

“Besides,” the girl continued, “I’ve only come out to fetch you. I met William at the blacksmith’s shop, where he had the spade righted. He was drafted to help out with the bellows, as they were a man short, or he’d have come himself.”

“You young people worry too much,” said Hunith, but their concern touched her nonetheless. More so as Zulfiya had probably only visited the blacksmith’s shop to see Elyan. “Give me just a moment longer; I shall follow you shortly.”

The girl nodded. “I’ll wait by the path, beyond those trees, then.”

With that, she left Hunith alone, who sighed and picked up her basket again. The girl had been right; it was time to go back. She had tempted fate long enough.

As she glanced up at the sky to estimate how late it had become, however, she froze. Before the steely grey-blue of the autumn sky, a great, winged shape flew towards Camelot, smoke trailing behind the coiling, copper-scaled body. The wings, huge and leathery like those of a bat, were almost translucent in the morning light, the framework of bones like the exotic pattern of a screen. The dorsal spine ran like a mountain chain from the large head to the end of the long tail. And right behind the first thorn, a small figure sat, holding on with one hand for dear life and with a staff in the other one.

One did not need to be a witch or a sorcerer to recognize a dragon when one saw it. Most other people would have run in terror from the majestic but utterly terrifying sight. But Hunith of Ealdor, mother to the last Dragonlord, just smiled.

She knew what the sudden appearance of the dragon meant. Her son was coming home.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It took Lancelot longer than expected to cross the distance between the Valley of the Fallen Kings and Lord Godwyn’s realm. He could have reached Corbenic within the day, had Merlin’s horse, capricious and wilful without a rider, not slowed him down considerably. As it did, though, it was already dark when he reached the borders of Corbenic, and he expected to need another full day to reach the Castle of Gawant.

He spent the night in a small inn near the border, smiling slightly to himself when he imagined how much more Gwaine would have enjoyed staying there. Or how much more the innkeeper and the pretty barmaid would have enjoyed it, for that matter. Lancelot was not a man of many drinks, and his interest in women was firmly focused on the one he could never have; consequently he was of little use to them.

So he bought dinner – Corbenic, not having been subjected to Morgause’s sorcery, had brought in a fairly rich harvest, and Lancelot enjoyed his first good meal in _months_ – slept in the stables with the horses (which were, after all, owned by the royal stables) and left the small village at the next daybreak. He still had a long way before him, and he wanted to reach his destination before nightfall. It was always better to ride in daytime across unknown territory. 

He only stopped once, in another village, to eat and have the horses fed and watered. Riding slowly yet steadily, with no rests in-between, he came to the Holy Well of Llyr in the late afternoon that day. From there, the innkeeper had assured him, it would not take long to reach Lord Godwyn’s castle.

The innkeeper had also given him a fairly accurate description of the sacred place itself, so he recognized it at once. He had seen ancient places like this before, old sanctums that had fallen into disuse and were half-ruined yet still harboured the power and magic that lived in the water and the earth itself. So it did not surprise him that even he, with his spectacular lack of affinity for such things, could feel it thrumming through his whole body. These places were… well, old and sacred, saturated with magic.

What _did_ surprise him, however, was seeing the group of druids going to and fro between the entrance of some caves not far from the well – presumably their quarters – and the half-ruined stone circle atop the hill from which the well sprang. He did not recognize any of them (it would have been hard, given that they tended to wear the same hooded cloaks, in the same subdued colours) but he had the feeling that these must be the same ones Merlin had encountered repeatedly. He did not know why, but he was almost certain.

His suspicions were confirmed when a tall, grey-cloaked figure rose from the stone bench opposite the well. It was Iseldir, the Druid who had confronted Arthur in the Great Hall of Camelot. The woman in his company was young, blonde and somewhat plain-looking, wearing a simple, dark red dress under the grey Druid cloak. Nevertheless, it was she who came forth to greet Lancelot.

“Welcome, traveller,” she said in a pleasantly low-pitched voice. “What is it you seek at the Well of Llyr?”

“I’m on my way to Lord Godwyn’s castle, in the hope of resting there for a while before continuing my journey to Camelot,” answered Lancelot truthfully.

The woman gave him a once-over, quickly taking in his rough clothes – but also the mail shirt under his surcoat and the great sword on his sword-belt.

“You bear yourself like a knight, speak like a knight and carry the weapon of a knight,” she said. “Yet your clothes are those of a commoner. Who _are_ you?”

“My name is Lancelot,” he answered, “and I was raised as a commoner indeed; lived the life of a commoner, serving as a hired sword for everyone who would hire me, until Arthur Pendragon saw it fit to make me a Knight of Camelot.”

“I remember you,” said Iseldir. “You stood indeed with the other knights when I visited Camelot. But aren’t only the sons of noble Houses allowed to become knights at Uther Pendragon’s court?”

“Usually, that’s true,” replied the knight. “But Arthur made an example by knighting a few of us, commoners, who stayed with him in Camelot’s darkest hour. Even though some of us turned out less of a commoner than the others,” he added dryly. “It seems that Sir Percival the Angevin is the son of a princess, and as for myself, I was apparently stolen from my parents as an infant by my nurse and raised as her own.”

“So, you are the lost son of Lord Ban then?” asked Iseldir. “I heard about that; it was a most tragic event. The Lady Elaine never recovered from the loss of her husband and son and died a short time later.”

“And my whole life turned out to be a lie,” said Lancelot bitterly.

“It was not your fault,” said the Druid woman. “And being raised as a commoner taught you lessons you would never have learned otherwise. Now that you’re reinstated in your birthright, you’ll have the chance to teach them to your fellow knights.”

“If they’re willing to listen,” answered the knight doubtfully.

“You cannot do more than try your best,” she replied. “And I can offer you guidance for your onward way. I’m Forridel, guardian of the Well; I’m the one who looks into its blue mist on sacred nights to see the future. I’ll look for you, if that is what you want.”

“I’ve already tried _that_ in the Crystal Cave,” said Lancelot, “and it made no sense to me… _or_ to Merlin.”

“You’ve travelled in the company of Emrys?” Iseldir’s interest was piqued at once. “Why is he not with you then?”

“He decided for a dragon ride,” Lancelot told him flatly; the Druids already knew who or what Merlin was, so telling them the truth did not really matter. “I’m sure it’s faster… and more exciting.”

“And also a great deal more dangerous,” said the Druid in concern. “Emrys is powerful, but he’s also young and inexperienced. And dragons are treacherous creatures; even a warlock would have a hard time to control them.”

“Perhaps so,” allowed Lancelot, “but for a Dragonlord, it’s a fairly easy task.”

The two Druids stared at him in open-mouthed shock. All right, perhaps telling the blatant truth had _not_ been such a good idea. He could only hope that Merlin would not turn him into a toad when he learned about it.

“You didn’t know?” he asked, mentally cursing his slip of the tongue.

Iseldir shook his head. “We knew he was special, but not even we had an inkling _how_ special he is. That explains certain things… but we need to learn more about this. Stay with us tonight, Sir Knight; tomorrow you can join Princess Elena’s entourage and ride with them to Gawant. We have much to discuss with you.”

Lancelot considered that for a moment.

“All right,” he then said. “But I have a few questions myself. I expect to get some answers, too.”

“If we have the answers, we’ll give them to you,” promised Iseldir.

Lancelot nodded. “Then I will stay.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The messenger had ridden hard for days to reach the Castle of Gorre, the seat of King Baudemagus of Caerleon, before the onset of the new year. He had crossed Camelot along the shoreline of the Sea of Meredor, which was _not_ a safe route for a spy of Caerleon to choose. But it was the shortest way between the late King Cenred’s realm and home, and in the state of post-war upheaval, the remaining Knights of Camelot could not control _all_ paths running across Uther Pendragon’s realm. A lonely rider _could_ slip through easily… assuming he did not get robbed and murdered by footpads or other lordless men roaming the countryside.

The messenger had no such concerns, though. He might just be carrying messages for his lord this time, but he was, in fact, an experienced and valiant knight, feared and respected by his peers all across Caerleon. He knew how to demand respect and obedience from the men-at-arms serving under him – but he also knew how to merge with the shadows if he had to. He _had_ slipped through the loosened net of Camelot patrols undetected, and was now riding openly through the lower town, knowing that he would be recognized by his distinctive black armour, even without bearing his family crest.

And indeed, the palace guards uncrossed their halberds as soon as they saw him approach the castle gate. They were the most trustworthy men of the entire realm, outfitted similarly in ring mail beneath white surcoats and armed with broadswords as well as the halberds. Their white shields were emblazoned with the image of twin sea hawks, and the centre ridges of their helms were trimmed in the feathers of the same birds. That was the ancient crest of the House Llyr, the Sea Kings of old, the male line of which had only survived in the Kings of Caerleon.

“Welcome home, Sir Mordrain,” one of the guards said. “The Prince has been asking for you every hour, hoping that you may arrive before the celebration begins.”

For Caerleon, having been ruled by Kings of the House Llyr, had always followed the Old Religion, blithely ignoring Camelot’s crusade against magic and its users. Therefore, once the night of _Oidhche Shamhna_ had fallen, the Prince’s presence would be required to take part in the ceremonies and he would not have the time to talk to his spies.

As there were still several hours left till sunset, though, Sir Mordrain, spymaster and right hand of the Crown Prince, could hope to speak with his lord in time. He rode through the great gate, left his exhausted horse in the care of a young page, with the same crest emblazoned on his tabard as the palace guards, and headed towards the west-tower of the keep that traditionally served as the lodging of the Crown Prince.

Another duo of palace guards granted him entry wordlessly at the tower gate, and the young squire on duty in the antechamber, also with the crest of Llyr on his tabard, hurried to announce his arrival without being told so. Barely a moment later, the boy came back, holding the door open for him.

“Prince Meleagant awaits you, Sir Mordrain,” he announced.

The spymaster nodded curtly and entered the audience chamber. He took off his helmet as he went, revealing thus an olive-skinned, hawkish face, with a clean-shaven skull, a fine scimitar of a nose and deep-set, piercing black eyes. The only facial hair he wore was the narrow line of black beard that ended in a point just below his chin and eyebrows so thin as if they had been painted on with a fine brush.

As his foreign features clearly revealed, he was not a son of Caerleon but scion of a noble family of Southerners from beyond the sea that had fled to Albion when war had swept over Al-Andalus – only to come to a country even more war-ridden. They had allied themselves with the House Llyr right from the beginning and had served the Kings of Caerleon faithfully for centuries.

The audience chamber he entered was a surprisingly large, circular hall, filling nearly the entire ground level of the tower. Its stone-paved floor showed a pattern that once had been bright and colourful but that had darkened almost beyond recognition with age. The tapestries hanging on the walls were faded, too, but one could still see that they depicted key events from the history of the House Llyr. The tall, narrow, arched windows, with panes of stained glass, broke the light into a colourful pattern; even during daytime, one needed a lamp for reading or writing or any kind of fine work.

The Crown Prince of Caerleon was sitting in his big, high-backed chair of heavy oak when the spymaster came in, with his hands resting on the arms of said chair that were carved in the likeness of some fantastic sea monsters. He was a man in his early thirties; one of those rare men who, while big and strong, could be lightning-fast in combat and surprisingly graceful for their size. His pale, bearded, ruggedly handsome face was framed by slightly wavy, dark hair that hung loosely over the heavy shoulders of an excellent swordsman. A broad chest, emphasized by a mail shirt and a long, sleeveless black leather jerkin, tapered down to a slim waist and lean hips; his legs were covered in black trousers and knee-high riding boots.

The only piece of clothing _not_ black on him was the knee-length tunic he wore over his mail shirt. It was white on one side (the colour of his House) and deep burgundy red on the other side (the traditional colour of royalty), with the twin hawks of the House Llyr emblazoned in silver on his breast. A circlet of silver, studded with white and green gemstones, sat upon his brow, marking him as the heir apparent of Caerleon’s throne – the Sons of Llyr _never_ wore gold.

The spymaster bent his knee as a sign of respect to greet him. “Sire,” he said simply.

Prince Meleagant nodded his greetings. “Sir Mordrain, it’s good to have you back.” He then glanced at his squire and the elderly manservant who was filling his cup. “Leave us.”

The servants hurriedly obeyed. Only a small figure, sitting on a low divan at the back of the room, sumptuously decked out in a gown of brocaded silk and a hooded mantle of rich velvet, blacker than a civet cat, and veiled from spying eyes, remained in the room. Her presence, however, was required; she was the one to keep the room warded, so that no one could eavesdrop on the Prince.

“What have you achieved, then, in my dear, deceased brother’s realm?” asked the Prince when they were finally alone.

The spymaster emptied the cup that had been offered to him by the elderly manservant and put it down on the table. Then he pulled a few folded and sealed leaves of parchment from under his surcoat, where they had been hidden in a secret pouch.

“Some of the lesser barons and landowners have survived,” he replied, handing the documents with the enchanted seals to his lord. “These are the written oaths of fealty they’ve sworn to you, in my presence and before the others as witnesses. They’re more than willing to accept you to rule as their King in your late brother’s stead. But the realm is in a bad shape, sire. There’s famine and pestilence all over the country, and the majority of their men-at-arms was killed at Camelot when the immortality spell was broken.”

“I thought Melwas’ army was made up of mercenaries,” said the Prince with an unhappy frown. He had no desire to claim a realm without enough subjects that would work to make it rich – and fight to protect its riches.

“A great many of them _were_ mercenaries,” replied the spymaster. “Mostly those who joined during the last year. But the hard core was always made up of men of the country itself, and only a handful of those who refused to accept Morgause’s spell survived the war. And even those have followed the Lady Morgana, who is currently hiding in the Castle of Fyrien, as they feared the vengeance of the barons opposing Morgause’s growing influence over their King.”

“What about Morgause?” asked the Prince. “Is she in the Castle of Fyrien with her sister?”

“It’s hard to learn anything for certain,” admitted the spymaster. “But rumours say she was badly wounded in the last battle for Camelot and now lies as dead, hidden away in the castle, in her sister’s care.”

“Curious,” murmured the Prince, albeit not without some dark satisfaction, “that someone of her awesome powers would be so badly hurt by common weapons.”

“Curious indeed,” agreed the spymaster. “Curious enough to make one doubt it.”

The Prince shook his head. “And yet that has to be the way it happened. Uther wouldn’t tolerate sorcerers in Camelot – and it would need a very powerful one to beat Morgause at her own game.”

“Uther had been imprisoned for weeks by the end,” the spymaster reminded him. “Who knows what kind of allies young Arthur won during his brief exile? They say he’s even knighted four commoners as a reward for their faithful service; and he’s apparently wooing a mere maidservant now – the same one who used to serve the Lady Morgana.”

The Prince chortled. “There will be Hell to pay when Uther recovers!”

“ _If_ he recovers,” said the spymaster. “He’s keeping up appearances well enough, but he’s a broken man. His mind keeps wandering, they say; he needs a draught, prepared by his court physician, to keep him alert enough for the events he chooses to take part in. Which is why Arthur has been enthroned as Prince Regent and Sir Ector of the Marshes has been made Vice-Regent of the realm.”

“Small wonder,” commented the Prince, darkly amused. “Being overthrown by an illegitimate daughter he never acknowledged and who has the very thing he hates most in spades – magic! – must have been quite the blow. What do you think of this Lady Morgana, though? Would she be interested in an alliance between our Houses?”

“Sire, _that_ move has already gone terribly wrong once!” the spymaster warned him. “Besides, they say the Lady Morgana is but a puppet in her sister’s hand. A shame, though; she seems to have great, raw powers.”

“Then it’s high time that she got freed and properly trained.” The Prince looked askance at the small, veiled figure sitting on the divan. “What do you think, Cundrie?”

A deep, hollow voice answered him from under the multiple layers of veils. “It _could_ be done. But you must make your move before Morgause recovers.”

“Then we shall move right after the festival,” said the Prince, “and make our first longer rest at the Castle of Fyrien, to pay the ladies our proper respects… among other things. I want Morgause dealt with, permanently.” He looked at the spymaster. “How many knights and men-at-arms would be willing to come with me, Sir Mordrain?”

The spymaster counted in his head before answering.

“Twenty knights, so far, with a hundred troops under them, each.”

“That’s not much,” said the Prince, clearly disappointed. “In fact, that’s but a shard of the armies my brother was able to call to arms.”

The spymaster shrugged. “Better than nothing, though. And you can always win more men for your cause when they see you commanding an army already… even if it’s just a small one.”

“True enough,” allowed the Prince. “Perhaps the lords who’ve sworn fealty to me will send troops, too, when they see that we’re not powerless on our own. Very well, then. Send word to our supporters that we shall leave Caerleon on the third day after _Oidhche Shamhna_. Tell them to bring all the supplies they can gather – we’ll need them, as we’re going into a land ravaged by war.”

The spymaster bowed perfunctorily. “It shall be as you order, sire. Will that be all?”

“Yes… well, nearly.” The Prince paused; then he lowered his voice before asking, “Have you… have you heard anything about my son?”

The spymaster shook his head. “Nothing for certain, to my regret. Apparently, he’s been on the run with that vagabond sorcerer and his band of renegades for more than a year now. Ever since he slipped his leash as the Druid camp was attacked.”

“If they’re on the run, they might even hide in Glastening,” said the Prince. “If fortune smiles on me, I might even get him back.”

“You shouldn’t even _think_ of that, sire,” the little veiled one warned him. “The boy is an abomination: born twice of night and using dark magic. There is a reason why a bond between a Don sorceress and a Llyr warrior has always been outlawed. The fruit of such a bond always turns evil.”

“He is still my only son,” said the Prince, “and I want him back.”

“Your love for a boy you could never keep with you will be your downfall,” prophesied the sorceress.

“So be it,” said the Prince darkly. “I won’t give up on my own flesh and blood.” He turned back to the spymaster. “Go now. Make sure that everything’s in readiness in three days’ time. We have a realm to take over.”


	8. A Dark and Sacred Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In real medieval society, a king’s bastard wouldn’t be eligible as his heir (which is why Morgana’s claim would never have been accepted). But since the series blithely ignores this fact, so do I. Also, I know that in the legend Lancelot’s father is supposed to have been a king, but that would have stretched the limits of what I could do to reconcile series canon and legends.
> 
> The ritual described here is not a genuine one, although some elements are taken from the rules one had to observe when visiting a holy well. The ornate of the priestess is based on a picture of Don Maitz.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 08 – A DARK AND SACRED NIGHT**

Had Hunith known that somebody else had also witnessed the Great Dragon’s return to Camelot, she would have been greatly worried. She hadn’t met Gwaine yet, after all, and thus couldn’t know that the most wayward knight of the realm would do everything in his power to keep her son safe. _Including_ lying to the King, the Crown Prince and everyone else. He might be a knight of Camelot now; he might even have admitted that Arthur is different enough from all other nobles to die for – _perhaps_! – but he was, first and foremost, Merlin’s friend.

He’d never had close friends before – living the life of a vagabond made it hard to gain any – and so he valued the fact that he had found one in Merlin. He’d been honest when he told Merlin that he’d joined Arthur’s case mostly for the young servant’s sake – even though he’d come to actually _like_ Arthur in the process. But it was still Merlin whom he considered his best friend. His _only_ friend, if he wanted to be honest with himself, which he always tried to be, self-delusions not being the way of life in his opinion. 

And so he’d been worried about his friend’s long absence.

It wasn’t so that he wouldn’t trust Lancelot to keep Merlin safe. Lancelot was one of the most capable swordfighters Gwaine had ever seen, and despite the lofty ideals Arthur had apparently put into his head about honour and chivalry, he _could_ fight dirty if he had to. Gwaine even trusted him to actually _do_ so to protect Merlin. It was just so that they’d been gone for weeks already, and Gwaine was beginning to worry.

Unlike the other knights of the court, he knew where the Lake of Avalon was to be found. He and his mother had been taken in by a tribe of Druids and wandered with them on the ancient routes for a few years after his father’s death. So he also knew that by now they should have word from their return, even though they probably wouldn’t have been back yet. There were messenger stations along the main roads of Camelot; had Merlin and Lancelot passed any of those, a messenger bird would have been sent, announcing their return.

As nothing like that had happened so far, Gwaine became increasingly worried. So he went to Arthur and told the Prince that he wanted to keep watch on the road the two were likely to return. Asking Arthur’s leave was _not_ a thing he usually did, but there were exceptions, and this time he wanted to stay in the Prince’s good grace, in case he needed reinforcements.

Apparently, Arthur was concerned as well, because he gave permission without asking questions.

“Take one of the squires with you,” was all he said. “They need to learn their way through the wilderness.”

That was fine with Gwaine, as he’d intended to do so anyway. He even had his eye on the right person. And so when he rode out in the next morning, he took young Gareth with him, the only one of the squires he found worth of his tutoring. For his part, Gareth was only too happy to accompany the knight whom he’d come to respect greatly.

“It’s not so that I don’t like Camelot; nor have I any grudges against serving in the kitchens,” he explained, steering his steed with his knees so that it would trot next to Gwaine’s horse, “But I’ve barely left the castle since our arrival. I’d like to see more of the surroundings… learn the direction of the main roads… that sort of thing.”

“Have you ever been to Camelot before?” asked Gwaine. The younger man shook his head.

“I never left Orkney at all before we’d come here,” he explained. “I’m the youngest, with a doting father and two overprotective older brothers… well, three actually, although we never met our oldest half-brother. His mother took him right after his birth and left with him. We don’t even know his name.”

Gwaine nodded. “Yeah, I heard about that. Must be hard for your father. He’d be the heir apparent, after all.”

“Truth be told, it’s a lot harder on my brother Gaheris,” replied Gareth with a crooked smile. “He’s in a very uncomfortable situation. He’s been burdened by the duties of the firstborn all his life, while he knew that – should our half-brother mysteriously reappear – he won’t become King of Orkney, no matter what.”

Gwaine nodded again, slowly. Sir Gaheris did look burdened most of the time indeed… way too burdened for a young prince whose father was still in the best of his years. The middle brother, Sir Agravaine, was a lot like him: tall, dark and brooding. Gareth, on the other hand, was _not_. Tall and dark-haired he was, too, but with blue eyes, pale skin and a cheerful nature.

“You’re not like your brothers,” commented Gwaine. Gaheris shrugged.

“I guess I take after my mother. What about you?”

It was Gwaine’s turn to shrug now. “My father was a knight in the King of Caerleon’s service. When he died, he left my mother penniless and me as a babe on arms. My mother went to the King to ask him for help but was thrown out of the palace. So she fled with me to other countries. For a while, we lived with a Druid tribe. They took us in, cared for us, asked no questions. Taught me to survive in the wilderness. But I wasn’t like them; couldn’t get used to their way of life. So when my mother died, I left the Druids and learned to survive on my own.”

“How old were you?” asked Gareth, visibly shocked. Gwaine shrugged again.

“Fourteen. It wasn’t such a big deal. In Cymru, a fourteen-year-old counts as a man and is expected to take care of himself.”

“At the age of fourteen, I was a Page Prince and spoiled rotten,” said Gareth, clearly a little embarrassed. “I was serving my brother Gaheris and was carefully educated to become a courtier. They didn’t even want to allow me to have more than the most basic training in swordfight!”

Gwaine grinned at him. “The perils of being the youngest son.”

“The youngest child, actually,” corrected Gareth. “I’ve got two older sisters, too,” his smile faded for a moment, indicating a longer tale behind that comment; one he was not willing to tell just yet. “What about you? No siblings at all?”

Gwaine shook his head. “None. Although I wouldn’t mind having a baby brother like you,” he winked, and the youth accepted the compliment with a slight blush.

“I cannot understand what happened to your mother, though,” he then said. “King Baudemagus may be the sworn enemy of Camelot – the two realms have been warring since the dawn of Time itself – but he’s said to be the most courteous man and a good king who cares for his subjects; a true embodiment of all knightly valours. How could he have rejected the plea of your mother? It’s not like him at all!”

“I don’t know,” replied Gwaine grimly. “All I know is what my mother told me – which wasn’t much, to be honest. Not even the name of my father did she ever told me. She said it was too painful for her to speak of him.”

“But what about your Seal of Nobility?” asked Gareth. “You’d be entitled to wear it, proving that you’re of noble birth and thus well within your rights to be a Knight of Camelot!”

Gwaine shrugged. “Titles mean very little to me; and I don’t believe that people should be treated with respect just because their _birth_. Respect is something that needs to be _deserved_ ; everyone ought to gain it by their _deeds_.”

“You really don’t care!” realized Gareth, mildly shocked by that very realization.

One could not blame him for that, though. Most people would have been literally obsessed with proving their noble origins.

Of course, Gwaine wasn’t _most people_.

“I really don’t care,” he confirmed; then he added with a wry grin. “Besides, I don’t even know what my father’s Seal of Nobility looked like, so it’s a moot point anyway. What do you say, should we ride down the road westwards for a few leagues and see if we can learn something?”

“Erm… I really don’t think we should do that,” said Gareth in a strangely hollow voice.

Gwaine frowned in displeasure. Why would the boy argue with him? It was the right direction, and besides, the western road passed _Mary’s Tavern_ – the very place where he had met Arthur and Merlin for the first time. It offered excellent mead, excellent gossip – perhaps even a good brawl. He admitted he missed those things.

“Why not?” he asked, a little more brusquely than intended.

“I don’t think you’d like the company there,” replied the young squire, clearly fighting back his panic.

He pointed at the sky, and even Gwaine was mildly shocked to see the huge, winged creature descending from the clouds in the middle of the Forest of Ascetir, barely two or three leagues from them. And the curl of smoke trailing behind it made it quite unlikely that it would be a bird of any kind.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Princess Elena of Gawant reached the Holy Well of Llyr well before sunset, as she was supposed to. Fortunately, old Mistress Alys had instructed her in detail _what_ she ought to do and _how_ she should do it. The Well had strange powers, and if one did not observe the rituals carefully, one could easily get in trouble. It was better to be careful.

Had Elena’s mother lived, as a Princess of the House Llyr she would have taught her daughter all these things. Without her guidance, however, Elena had remained ignorant about many things concerning her heritage; her father, a son of House Don, could not help her with such matters. She was grateful that Mistress Alys had taken it upon herself to teach her the most important things.

“The Well of Llyr is the most sacred place for the daughters of your House,” the old crone told her. “Once upon a time, one of your ancestors, a great enchantress, was the guardian of the Well. She gave up her guardianship willingly to become the wife of a great lord from the House Don. But her husband was unfaithful, and so she left him and fled to the far west, to the enchanted forest of Brocéliande. They say, her lord followed her, and she cursed him and turned him to stone.”

Elena shook her head doubtfully. “That’s just a legend!”

“Perhaps; perhaps not,”” said the old crone. “It’s no legend, though, that the daughters of Llyr can see their future in the water of the Well – _if_ the ritual is performed properly.”

That possibility excited Elena very much. After all, which girl would not like to know what the future holds for her? Princesses are no exception there.

“What do I have to do?” she asked eagerly.

“You must reach the Well before sunset on the Eve of Samhain,” explained Mistress Alys, “but must no approach it until night falls; and you must not speak a word from the moment he sacred hill with the standing stoned comes into sight until the time is right.”

“And when _will_ the time be right?” Elena was getting a little frustrated.

Mistress Alys smiled at her. “Right after nightfall, you must approach the Well from the east and walk three times deiseal around the hill in silence. Remember, time, direction and the times you walk around it are very important. When you have done that, you can speak the required words, which I will teach you in a moment. One of the Druid women will offer you water from the Well in a hallowed bronze vessel. You’ll drink from it three times and carry the rest in the same vessel to the top of the hillock, where the Guardian of the Well will be waiting for you. You give her the vessel and remain silent until she finishes the scrying ritual. Then you make your offering.”

“What do I offer?” asked Elena, a bit frightened by the whole thing. Her father did not actively pursue magic in Corbenic but he did not exactly condone it, either; therefore this was the first time that she’d take part of any ancient ritual.

Mistress Alys fetched a small box from the late Queen’s treasure chest and took out a fine silver pin that ended in the shape of a sea hawk.

“You’ll offer this,” she said. “You’ll prick your finger with it to draw blood; then the pin with your blood on it will be buried in the earth and the water from the vessel poured over the place. This is to strengthen your bond with the fertile soil of your lands and to ensure that you, too, will be fertile in your marriage.”

The idea of practising magic so actively did frighten Elena a little, but she was not about to back off now. Grunhilda had always said that she was destined to bear an extraordinary child, sired by an extraordinary man. For many years, she had believed that man would be Arthur Pendragon. That they would unite the Houses of Llyr and Don, as the ancient prophecies had foretold, and then Arthur would unite Albion.

But that was obviously _not_ to happen, and she was most anxious to find out who the man would be with whom she was destined to have the promised child. She needed to know, even if it meant to do magic – or, at least, to take part of some arcane rituals, as she had no magical powers whatsoever. She needed to prepare herself for that match.

She only hoped she would not be destined to wed Sir Bromel, after all. _That_ would have been a fate too cruel to bear indeed.

“Teach me the words,” she said quietly but with determination. She was the last Princess of Llyr. She had a duty towards her House, no matter what it might cost her personally.

And so the old crone taught her the required words that would wake the powers of the Well, and she left the Castle of Gawant in the company of young Gwilim and with a dozen men-at-arms his father had insisted to send with her. It was not truly necessary, the way was not long and the paths between Castle and Well patrolled by her father’s knights all the time. But Elena made no objections, knowing that it made her father feel better about her safety, and she did not want the old man to worry unnecessarily.

Their way was fairly short indeed, as well as pleasant and undisturbed, and they reached their destination well within time. One of the men had rode forward to scout out the road still lying before them and came back shortly thereafter with relief clearly written into his broad face.

“Princess, we’re almost there,” he reported. “Beyond that tree line, the hillock with the standing stones can clearly be seen.”

“Then I must remain silent from now on,” said Elena, “for so a visit to the Holy Well requires. Gwilim has detailed orders how you all have to spend the time while I’m at the Well; I shall meet you again where the other men are waiting, once the night is over.”

For no men were allowed to witness the women’s rituals on the Eve of Samhain, not even the Druids themselves.

“It will be as you order, Princess,” replied the man.

And from that moment on, they continued their way in silence.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“What are we going to do now?” asked Gareth fretfully. “Clearly, Camelot is in dire peril! I thought the last dragon was supposed to have perished a year ago!”

“That was what we all thought,” replied Gwaine, not showing the slightest sign of concern. “Obviously, we were mistaken.”

“Well, why are we wasting our time here?” cried out the young squire in great distress. “We must hurry back to Camelot; warn the Prince and the other knights…”

“We’re not doing any such thing,” answered Gwaine with infuriating calm. “In fact, we’ll do the exact opposite: we’ll ride straight to the place where that… _thing_ has landed.”

Gareth stared at him in open-mouthed shock. “Are you _insane_? That’s a _dragon_ there! Why would we want to get any closer to it?”

“Because I’m fairly certain that it hasn’t come alone,” replied Gwaine lightly, “and I’m also fairly certain that its rider won’t mind some friendly company.”

“Someone has _ridden_ that thing?” Gareth stared at him as if he’d expect the knight to suddenly sprout another head or two. “Who? Why would anyone do that? How _could_ anyone do that?”

Suddenly Gwaine became uncharacteristically serious.

“Listen to me, young man,” he said grimly. “You’ve seen something today that you weren’t supposed to see. Hell, I’m not sure _I was_ supposed to see it. In fact, I’m quite sure that I was _not_. But what’s done is done, and I cannot change it. So, there are only two things I can do: I can slay you here and now, before you learn even more. Frankly, I’d rather not. You’re a bright lad and I like you just fine. But there are bigger things at risk than just your life, and if I have to choose, I won’t hesitate to make the hard choice. Do you understand me?”

Gareth nodded nervously and bit his lower lip. He did not doubt for a moment that Gwaine would kill him without hesitation to keep this big, dark secret – whatever it was – uncovered. He might regret having to do so, but he _would_ do it.

“What’s the other option?” he asked, trying not to look too frightened. He really did not want to die. He was young had not even made knight, he still had his whole life before him.

“You swear by your name, by your personal honour and by the crest of your family that you bear that you’ll keep this secret until there’s time to reveal it,” answered Gwaine. “It might not take long; I have the feeling that Prince Arthur will learn about it in a fairly short time. But until then, you must not speak about it with anyone – not even with me.”

“Why not with you?” asked Gareth, confused.

“Because it’s not _my_ secret to reveal,” replied Gwaine grimly, “and because you can never know who else is listening.”

“We’re about to meet a sorcerer, aren’t we?” asked Gareth after a long pause.

“I’m not sure _what_ he is, exactly,” Gwaine admitted. “I doubt that a mere sorcerer could ride a dragon… especially _this_ one. But whatever he may be, he’s my friend, and I won’t let him come to harm, just because Uther Pendragon is obsessed with wiping out magic in his realm.”

“He’s your King,” Gareth reminded him. Gwaine shrugged.

“I still won’t betray a friend – or allow _you_ to do so. As long as Arthur isn't King, my friend is in danger. If you make me choose between him and you, you’ll lose.”

“I won’t make you choose,” said Gareth. “I don’t think what you’re doing is right, going against the law of the realm you serve, but if you give me your word that this friend of yours won’t use his powers against Camelot, I’m willing to believe you.”

“Do you swear then that you won’t speak of whatever you’ve seen or will see today to anyone?” Gwaine demanded. Gareth nodded.

“I do. By my name and my honour and by the crest of my family, I swear.”

Gwaine glared at him in suspicion for a while, as if he wanted to see right through his heart. Then, obviously content with what he had seen, he nodded abruptly.

“All right then. Let’s pick him up.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They rode down the western road swiftly but were still at some distance when they saw the huge form of the dragon leap into the air like a cat. The vast wings blotted out the very sun for a moment, before he creature would wheel away, its long thorny tail coiling in the air like a striking cobra, and flew off, back to the west, a thin trail of fire in its wake.

“That’s one problem solved,” commented Gwaine dryly, but secretly he was relived that they would not have to face a dragon, after all. Who could tell how firm Merlin’s hold would be on the creature? Even if he _had_ been the one who had freed it, dragons were ancient and wicked. Trusting them would have been a mistake.

It took them another two hours or so until they reached the area where the dragon had landed… well, almost. Its rider had walked a good distance in the meantime and made a tired but determined impression. His backpack hung flat and empty from his back, and he leaned onto his bizarre-looking staff for a support, albeit not yet too heavily. Gwaine did not look surprised at all, seeing him, but could hear Gareth’s gasp of shocked recognition from behind his back.

“ _You_? You’re a dragon rider?”

“A Dragonlord, actually,” Merlin shot Gwaine an annoyed look. “Did you have to drag him with you?”

“Don’t fret,” Gwaine was not easily shaken, not even by the angry glare of a man who was, obviously, powerful enough to tame a thousand-year-old dragon. “He’s sworn to secrecy. Besides, how was I supposed to know that you’d come riding a _dragon_ instead of on horseback like any sensible fellow would do? Where’s Lancelot?”

“On his way back, with both our horses,” replied Merlin. “But it will take time until he makes it back. We’ve made a little detour to the _Valley of the Fallen Kings_.”

“Why on earth would you want to do that?” Gwaine frowned. “That place is cursed.”

“No, it isn’t,” corrected Merlin. “It’s still dangerous for those who venture into it unaware or uninvited – but not for me.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Gwaine reluctantly. “That still doesn’t explain why you went there in the first place.”

“I went to the Crystal Cave, in the hope of learning something about the future,” answered Merlin simply.

Gwaine rolled his eyes. “And? Have you?”

“Perhaps,” said Merlin. “It won’t be easy to explain what I’ve seen, though. I’ll have to discuss it with Gaius, before I’d say anything to Arthur. _And_ with Master Geoffrey.”

“We shouldn’t waste any more time, then,” said Gwaine. “Come, climb up behind me; you’re but a stick, Gringolet will easily carry us both.”

Merlin’s face lit up at the perspective of continuing his way on horseback. He grabbed Gwaine’s extended hand and let the knight haul him up behind Gringolet’s saddle unceremoniously. The big, white horse snorted but tolerated him good-naturedly – it never threw off anyone its master sat onto its back.

“Hold on,” said Gwaine. “We must get back to Camelot before Arthur starts fretting. You know he can be a real princess sometimes.”

Which was not true, of curse, unless one called the fact that Arthur cared for his knights _fretting_. Merlin laughed nonetheless and wrapped one arm around Gwaine’s lean waist, the other still holding the Sidhe staff. Gwaine nudged Gringolet’s flanks with his knees, and the three of them galloped off towards Camelot.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
A Druid welcomed Princess Elena’s party at the edge of the lightening where the sacred hill stood and led the men to a small camp near the cave. Simple awnings had been raised there to offer them at least some protection from the cold weather. From there, they had no direct view at the Well, which was intended. The rituals were for the participants only.

Elena remained at the entrance between the trees until darkness fell. Then a Druid woman came to guide her. With hand gestures, she instructed her to let her hair down and follow her to the Well. Together, they walked around the hillock three times, the woman holding Elena’s hand protectively. When they reached the stone arch of the Well again, the Druid woman produced a simple, round bronze vessel that bore the ancient symbols of the elements earth and water on its base – the elements upon which the enchantresses of the House Llyr had once built their powers.

Holding the vessel with both hands, the woman filled it with water from the Well and offered it to Elena. Elena spoke the words Mistress Alys had taught her:

_A year of beauty. A year of plenty. A year of planting. A year of harvest.  
A year of forests. A year of healing. A year of vision. A year of passion.  
A year of rebirth. A year of rebirth. This year may we renew the earth.  
Let it begin with each step we take. Let it begin with each change we make.  
Let it begin with each chain we break. And let it begin every time we awake._

(1)

She was surprised, even a little shocked, when the water in the vessel began to boil. The Druid woman gestured her to drink. Elena hesitated, in fear that she might burn her mouth, but the woman gestured again, this time a little impatiently. With some reluctance, she lifted the vessel to her lips and drank the required three sips. To her surprise, the bubbling water was fresh and cool.

Relieved, she lowered the vessel again and looked at the Druid woman askance. The woman pointed at the hilltop. Remembering Mistress Alys’ instructions, Elena nodded her understanding and began to climb the hillock carefully, trying not to spill the hallowed water; that would have been considered a very bad omen.

When she stepped into the circle of the huge standing stones, she had the feeling as if she’d stepped into the Otherworld itself… or back into the distant past of her people. The hilltop was practically empty, save for a slender bronze column that looked like a tall, unadorned candlestick, in the middle; the whole place awash with moonlight, although the full moon was still a good week away.

Behind the column, which reached her to the chest, stood the Druidic priestess, her hair dark with the ash smeared over it in the wide frame of her hood. She wore a dark, earth-brown cloak, so wide-sleeved that the long purple tassels attached to the lower seam of the sleeves swept the ground. Under the cloak, her gown was midnight blue, with a red-and-gold pattern seaming the front where it came together. Two large, plain gold buttons decorated her thin belt, with a soft purple pouch hanging from it. She had tear-shaped golden earrings and a strange brooch, formed like an ancient rune, in the middle of her brow, fastened in her hair with a short golden chain.

She looked at Elena from under her wide hood with glittering eyes and held out both hands to accept the vessel. Bracelets shaped like golden serpents glittered around her wrists. Elena handed her the vessel, and the priestess placed it on top of the column. Then she raised her left hand, with her palm turned outwards, just above her head. She murmured something and made a magical gesture with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand.

At once, a vertical ring of fire appeared around her, like a shield – or a gateway to the Otherworld. She murmured something again, in the same ancient language that Elena did not understand. Blue mist rose from the vessel, filled the ring like glass or like ripping water, and the priestess appeared to see pictures in it.

All Elena could see was the mist itself.

Finally, the priestess brought her hands together. The fire-ring collapsed, and the mist seemed to return to the vessel. Then she looked at Elena.

“Your fate is about to come to fulfilment, Princess,” she said, “but you must be brave, for it is not an easy one. You must leave this place before sunrise, in a great hurry, without telling anyone why. On your way back, you will be attacked; you must _not_ allow your protector to use his powers, for it is destined that the man of whom you shall conceive your son will save you. But he, too, is under enchantment, and you must help fate, so that the prophecy can come true.”

Elena opened her mouth to ask something but closed it at once as the priestess raised her hand in a forbidding gesture.

“No, you must not speak until after sunrise, when you’ve left this sacred place. We shall send word to your guards, so that they can prepare to leave in a few hours. You, however, must make your offering now.”

That was the part of the ritual Elena had been a little anxious about – using one’s own blood for magic was a powerful and dangerous thing – but there was no backing off now. So she took the hawk-headed silver pin out of her bodice and pricked a finger with it… perhaps a little more forcefully than she should have done. Blood welled up from the small wound, and she smeared it all over the pin. Then she handed it to the priestess, who buried it right at the foot of the bronze column and emptied the vessel holding the hallowed water over the place.

“Your bond with the soil of this land has been renewed,” she announced. “For the first time since the death of your mother, the earth has been claimed by a Daughter of Llyr again; may it remain so blessed for seven generations. Rest now, until your guards are ready to leave. No-one will disturb you here.”

Resting on the naked earth in the chilly night of _Oidhche Shamhna_ was not the most comfortable thing. Less so for a princess, used to the softest bedding. But Elena wanted to do everything right and followed the woman assisting the priestess obediently. It was only for a few hours, after all.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
To say that Prince Arthur was relieved when he saw Gwaine ride into the courtyard with Merlin sitting behind him would have been the understatement of the year. He had been seriously worried about his manservant… his _friend_. Even with Lancelot to protect him, Merlin had a gift to attract trouble, and he did not do it by halves. At the moment, he looked unhurt, at least, albeit tried and worried – and he emphatically lacked both a horse _and_ a travelling companion.

Where the hell was Lancelot?

Strictly seen it was not appropriate for the Prince Regent of the realm to run down the great stairs of the castle in his royal person, just to welcome a lowly servant returning from some errand, but Arthur could not care less. Neither could Gwen, apparently – or Dame Guinevere, as she was being called since rising to the rank of chatelaine – who also came running from the women’s wing.

“Where’s Lancelot?” she demanded, before Arthur could have asked the same question. “Has something happened to him? Have you left him behind?”

“And more importantly, _Mer_ lin, where have you left the horses that, if I’m not mistaken, came from the royal stables?” drawled Arthur, clapping Gwaine’s shoulder briefly to express his thanks for bringing home the idiot unharmed. “Are you sure you can pay for their replacement?”

“The horses are fine,” said Merlin tiredly, “and so is Lancelot; I’m sure he’d be touched by your overwhelming concert about _his_ well-being. They’ll come back, too, eventually.”

Arthur grinned and thumped Merlin on the back, glad to see him returned safely. The evasive answer did _not_ serve to satisfy Gwen, however.

“What do you mean _eventually_?” she demanded anxiously. “Where _is_ he? Why has he not come with you?”

“He’s on his way,” replied Merlin, his eyes narrowing in annoyance. “But his way is different from mine.”

“Different in what way?” Gwen was not easily turned away from her chose path. “I mean, of course it’s different, he’s a knight, after all, and a noble, and you’re not… not that there would be anything wrong with _that_ ,” she caught herself babbling and turned back to the original question hurriedly. “Why couldn’t he come with you?”

“He just couldn’t,” answered Merlin with a shrug. “That should be enough for you.”

The authority in his voice surprised everyone; even shocked them a bit. Arthur certainly looked flabbergasted. Only Gwen was not backing off.

“How could it be enough?” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “How could you have left him behind? I thought you were friends! I thought we _all_ were friends!”

Merlin closed his eyes in a desperate effort to control his anger and exhaustion.

“I’ve no time for this,” he murmured; then he looked at Arthur seriously. “We need to talk. In _private_. Somewhere no-one can eavesdrop on us.”

Arthur frowned. “I have no secrets I’d keep from Guinevere… or from the Knights of the Round Table.”

“ _I do_ ,” replied Merlin with the same authority colouring his voice. “And it’s crucial for the survival of Camelot that you hear me out – you and no-one else.”

Arthur might have been a prat sometimes but he was not an idiot. And he had been taught all his life that the good of Camelot came before everything else; even before the interests of the Crown Prince. _Especially_ before the interests of the Crown Prince, it seemed from time to time.

“Very well,” he said after a moment of consideration. “I happen to know just the place. But I warn you, _Mer_ lin: should this… _talk_ turn out to be one of your harebrained theories, I’ll put you in the stocks for the rest of your miserable life!”

Merlin flashed him one of those mischievous half-grins. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, _sire_ ,” as usual, he managed to give the honorific title that peculiar emphasis that made it sound like an insult.

“Idiot,” replied Arthur affectionately and bumped shoulders with him as they walked up to the castle, leaving a deeply hurt Gwen and a darkly amused Gwaine behind.

As soon as they were gone, though, all traces of amusement faded away from the knight’s face. He signalled Gareth to leave them alone, and as the squire dutifully scurried off, he turned to Gwen with a hard look in his eyes.

“I thought you’ve made your choice, Dame Guinevere,” he said; the using of her full name had a cold, almost harsh sound to it. 

Gwen frowned, her eyes filling with tears again. “I don’t know what you mean…”

The way she looked at him was so innocent, so sweet… so _begging_. It would have broken the heart of both Arthur and Lancelot to see her so distraught. Unfortunately for her, Gwaine was a great deal more world-weary than those two besotted fools. _And_ he was a man devoted to his friends, first and foremost.

Even to friends _not_ called Merlin.

“Oh, I believe you do,” he grinned mirthlessly. “You know well enough that Lancelot would do anything for you – just like Arthur. You’ve made it abundantly clear that you chose Arthur, by kissing him before the eyes of the entire court, upon our return. You chose to become Queen…”

“No, I didn’t!” protested Gwen. “I know it can never be…”

“Do you truly?” Gwaine shook his head, clearly not believing her. “Then you should cease playing with him – _and_ with Lancelot. If you want to become Queen, fine with me; you won’t be any worse than all those simpering princesses Uther keeps tossing in Arthur’s way. If you’re sure it can’t be, though, then back off and settle for Lancelot. He’d never turn away from you, no matter what has he discovered about his true birth. But you can’t keep playing one against the other. You _will_ have to choose, and you’ll have to do it soon – or they’ll turn on each other because of you and Camelot will suffer.”

Gwen was truly speechless. As much as she would have liked to throw Gwaine’s accusations back into his face, she could not; because deep down she knew he was right. She _was_ still torn between Arthur and Lancelot, and she _would_ have to choose before the two would become rivals… and then enemies.

She did _not_ want to choose, though. She wanted to keep them both.

“Think about it carefully,” said Gwaine with unmistakable warning in his voice. “And don’t say I haven’t warned you. If you don’t make your choice, fate will make it for you – and I have the feeling that you won’t like _that_ choice. None of us would.”

With these words, he turned away, leaving her in the middle of the courtyard, shocked and gaping for breath.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The festivities of _Oidhche Shamhna_ lasted the whole night. Lancelot went down with some of the other men who had escorted their wives, sisters, mothers or mistresses to the Holy Well to a nearby village, to join the celebrations. By the time they had arrived, everything had been readied for the festivities already. 

The villagers had gathered the best of the autumn harvest and slaughtered cattle for the feast. A great bonfire had been built in the middle of the village, and the people cast the bones of the slaughtered cattle upon the flames. Personal prayers – in the form of wooden or clay objects representing the wishes of supplicants or ailments to be healed – were cast into the fire. Many sacrifices and gifts were offered up in thanksgiving for the harvest.

With the great bonfire roaring, the villagers had extinguished all other fires. Each family then solemnly lit their hearth from the one great common flame, bonding all families of the village together. As they received the flame that marked this time of beginnings, people clearly felt a sense of the kindling of new dreams and hopes for the year to come. And considering the year that lay behind them, even though Corbenic had been largely spared by the fighting between Camelot and Cenred’s realm, they certainly needed all the hope they could conjure up for a new year that would hopefully be better.

Lancelot remained with the villagers until daybreak. For the first time in years, he felt content, almost happy. He could still vaguely remember similar festivities from his childhood, in the small village at the lakeside in Benwick, where he had lived with his moth… with the woman Niniane whom he had believed to be his mother.

Despite everything, those had been good times; joyous times of family reunion, when all members of the household had worked together baking, salting meat, and making preserves for the winter feasts to come. Children would put on strange disguises and roam about the countryside, pretending to be the returning dead or spirits from the Otherworld. Boys and girls would put on each other's clothes, playing tricks on their elders and betters.

Until the village had been attacked by raiders from the Northern Plains and everyone he knew had been slaughtered where they stood. He alone had escaped and vowed that day that never again would he be helpless against the face of tyranny. He had made swordcraft his life. Every waking hour since that day, he had devoted to the art of combat.

He had never regretted his choice – less so now that his greatest wish had been fulfilled and he could count himself among the knights of Camelot, the centre of bravery and chivalry. But sometimes he still felt nostalgic for that simple life – a life he now knew had never been meant for him.

He knew now what kind of life he had been born to; he could see it whenever he looked at Sir Ector, and he was not sure he wanted it. All he had ever wanted was to become a knight of Camelot, and he had _that_ now. He would have been perfectly happy with his life – if not for Gwen. He briefly wondered if Gwen would have, in truth, chosen Arthur, had she known that he, too, was a nobleman, after all, and found no answer to his own question.

Oh, he did not blame her for her choice; truly, he didn’t. Which girl would not want to become Queen? And besides, Arthur was worthy of every girl’s love for himself, not just for his status as the future King. He was brave, generous and loyal, not to mention young and handsome – what was there _not_ to like for any girl? 

Beyond that, Arthur had been the one who helped Lancelot to make his dream become truth. He’d _never_ do anything to harm the Prince, in any way… or would he? Would there be anything or anyone who could twist him badly enough to turn against his lord? He hoped not.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The bonfire was burning down to the embers, and far away in the east, the new day was breaking with a faint ruddy light. The new year, pregnant with new hopes and new promises, had begun. It was time to return to the caves, say his farewells to the Druids and join Princess Elena’s entourage to leave with them for the Castle of Gawant. Lancelot exchanged the traditional blessings and well-wishes with the villagers and did just that.

… only to find the Princess and her people gone by the time he got back to the sacred hillock.

“The scrying ritual requires that she’d leave before the night is over,” explained Forridel. She was back in her simple garb, only the one or other fleck of ash in her blonde hair revealed her important role in the nightly ceremonies.

“But they’ve only left less than an hour ago,” added Iseldir. “You’ll catch up with them easily.”

“And catch up with them you must,” warned him Forridel, “for I can foresee dangers for the Princess; and _you_ are pre-destined to be her saviour.”

“ _Me_?” repeated Lancelot in surprise. “Why me?”

“Because you’ve been chosen and foretold to do so a long time ago,” she answered. “She needs a champion who will protect her.”

“I cannot be her champion,” protested Lancelot. “There’s only one lady alone for whom I’ll break my lance, and to that one I’ve already pledged myself.”

“This is not one of those jousting competitions where young knights can prove their skills and satisfy their vanity,” said Iseldir sternly. “This is the time when great destinies cross each other and become intertwined, for the good of Albion. _Your_ destiny is to protect the last known Princess of Llyr. For you, too, come from the House Llyr on your mother’s side. Together, the two of you could rebuild the House again and bring about the peace between the warring Houses, due to your alliance with Arthur.”

“That cannot be, as I’m not of royal blood; and I certainly shall not court the Princess, even if her father would find me an acceptable suitor, which he would _not_ ,” replied Lancelot. “Besides, isn’t Caerleon the last realm of the House Llyr? Should it not be _their_ destiny to rebuild their House?”

“It should,” said Iseldir grimly. “But the sons of King Baudemagus have long since turned to the dark arts. They must _not_ be allowed to become High Kings, or Albion would fall into a long night of which might be no awakening.”

“I thought you, of all people, would be glad if the magic returned to Albion,” said Lancelot in surprise.

Iseldir sighed. “There’s magic, Sir Knight, and there’s sorcery. What the Princes of Caerleon have allied themselves with is sorcery: the darkest kind there is. That’s why all those with genuine concern for the good of Albion in their hearts must support the Once and Future King: the one who’ll reunite Albion in peace and prosperity.”

“And that one would be…” Lancelot trailed off, realizing that he knew the answer already.

“… Arthur Pendragon, the Crown Prince of Camelot,” Iseldir replied nonetheless. “He’s our all hope and the promise for a better future. That’s why Emrys – the one you know as Merlin – has been sent to guide him and to protect him from all dangers he cannot overcome with his sword alone. That’s why you were drawn to Camelot by the desire of your heart to become a knight.”

“You must take care, though,” added Forridel, “for your own heart can turn against you treacherously. You are one of the key players in the big game for Albion’s future; you can easily destroy that future by following your heart’s desire instead of following your destiny. In a manner, you hold the future of Albion in your hands as much as Emrys or Prince Arthur do. Succeed, and Arthur’s kingdom will become the stuff of legends. Fail, and your sword will be reddened by the blood of your friends and comrades – and that of your King.”

More than that they were not willing to tell, no matter how much Lancelot begged them. Instead, they urged him to hurry up, before Princess Elena’s party would get beyond his reach. Seeing that pestering them would lead to nothing, Lancelot finally saddled his horse and rode off to the direction of Gawant Castle, Merlin’s steed following him on its own.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Arthur took Merlin with him to a remote tower of the castle; a tower where the warlock had never been before. Not that it would have surprised him. Camelot was _huge_ ; even in the three years he had already spent within its walls, he could not have seen every corner of it. 

Moreover as serving Arthur never left him any time for peaceful exploration. The Prince was a demanding master; not out of spite, just because he _was_ the Prince – and because he liked to have Merlin around his royal person. Even though he would rather have bitten his own tongue before admitting it.

The tower they went to was one of the oldest ones and had clearly been abandoned for a very long time. It looked every bit as crumbling and withered as the Fisher King’s castle had been, although it must once have belonged to a great lady, if the remains of its furnishing were any indication.

“Where are we?” asked Merlin, looking around curiously. It was a shame to let a tower as pretty as it once might have been to rot like this. He wondered if he could turn it back to its former splendour if he tried.

“It’s called the _Faerie Tower_ ,” replied Arthur, trying to avoid the thick cobwebs that hung from everywhere like curtains. “Legends say that it was once the prison of a Faerie Queen by the name of Morgan the Fay… back in King Vortigern’s times or before. People believe it’s cursed and won’t dare to come here. We can speak here undisturbed. So, what is it you wanted to tell me?”

Merlin swallowed nervously. During the entire flight on Kilgharrah’s back, he had been trying to figure out _what_ to tell Arthur and _how_ to tell it. It couldn’t be the whole truth, not yet. Arthur wasn’t King yet. Uther could still recover enough to take back the Sceptre, no matter what Gaius might think; and Sir Ector was still an unknown factor. But Arthur _needed_ to be warned.

So Merlin decided to begin with the smaller truths and unravel the rest of them step by step, as he would go.

“I think I know where Morgana is,” he said for starters.

Arthur’s eyes grew almost comically wide in surprise. “I see; and that would be where exactly?”

“I think she might be in the Castle of Fyrien,” replied Merlin. “Probably with Morgause, too, but I believe Morgause might be very weak… or even dead.”

“She _might_ be,” repeated Arthur. “You _believe_.”

Merlin shrugged. “Well, it wasn’t so easy to figure out. You try to see more clearly when it’s shown you through an enchanted crystal.”

“An _enchanted_ crystal,” Arthur knew he sounded like a parrot but couldn’t help it. The whole thing sounded more and more ridiculous by the moment. “And where, pray tell, would you get to look into an _enchanted_ crystal?”

“Why, in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, of course,” answered Merlin promptly. “The Crystal Cave is full of them, you know. That must be where it got its name in the first place.”

“You just made a little detour to the Valley of the Fallen Kings,” Arthur clarified.

Merlin nodded brightly. “I did.”

“From the lake of Avalon, which, if I memory serves me well, is a ride of several days from there,” continued Arthur.

“More than a week, actually,” corrected Merlin.

“And you’re already back, while Lancelot is still on his way, together with both of your horses,” said Arthur.

Merlin grinned and nodded, utterly content with himself.

“So how on earth can you be already here?” demanded Arthur.

Merlin pulled in that long neck of his and tried to look adorable; which he managed better than any puppy would ever be able to do.

“I rode a dragon?” he said, half-asking and half-joking.

At first Arthur wanted to laugh out loud at that ridiculous statement, because really, a _dragon_? But he soon realized that there was no way Merlin could have been able to get so far – and back! – in such a short time… _unless_ he _had_ been flying indeed. 

“And the next best dragon coming your way was just generous enough to give you a ride,” said the Prince, trying to ignore how ridiculous _that_ sounded in his own ears.

“Not just _any_ dragon,” corrected Merlin. “In fact, there’s only one of the Great Dragons left; the same one your father kept imprisoned under the castle for twenty years.”

“But – but I’ve slain that dragon… haven’t I?” protested Arthur.

Merlin shook his head.

“Why didn’t it destroy Camelot then?”

“ _He_ was stopped by the last Dragonlord,” said Merlin.

“Impossible!” argued the Prince. “Balinor was dead by then...” he trailed off and stared at Merlin open-mouthed, realization dawning. “ _You_?”

Merlin nodded.

“Balinor was your _father_?”

Merlin nodded again.

“And you never told me?”

“I hadn’t known it, either, until we set off to find him,” explained Merlin. “My mother thought it would be safer if I didn’t know. Besides, it wouldn’t have helped us as long as Balinor was alive. The powers of a Dragonlord are inherited from father to son by death… usually.”

“What do you mean with _usually_?”

Merlin shrugged. “Well, according to Gaius, not all sons _do_ actually inherit their father’s powers. One cannot know until one has faced one’s first dragon.”

Arthur digested all that for a while.

“I think you should tell me everything,” he then said. “Starting with the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This is a genuine Samhain chant taken from one of the Celtic spirituality websites.


	9. Allegiances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story derivates from both the series canon and the legends. Hence the different outcome of the events in Corbenic.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 09 – ALLEGIANCES**

As days went by and weeks followed weeks, Morgana grew increasingly impatient in the Castle of Fyrien. It wasn’t the fact that the castle practically lay in ruins that bothered her – the parts where she and the handful of her followers dwelt were still sturdy enough and could be defended against a numerous army – but her case was going nowhere.

The raven had been unsuccessful to find Merlin so far. The things happening in Camelot that she could see through the bird’s eyes were of no importance. Knights training, as always, patrols riding out as always, refugees streaming into Camelot to find some kind of safety and food as always in the times of trouble. Long, boring council meetings held in the palace, as always.

Only that now it was Arthur who held these meetings, with Sir Ector at his elbow all the time. And now Geoffrey of Monmouth and that vile old physician-turned-sorcerer were sitting at the council, too. Had Arthur gone mad, just like his father, to elevate them to that status? Master Geoffrey, she could understand. The man was nobly born, after all. But Gaius? Had Arthur still not realized that the man was a sorcerer?

She did not believe that Arthur would have turned away from the path of his father – _their_ father, and did _that_ knowledge not burn her like fire? – and allowed the use of magic. So there could be only one explanation: despite all that he had seen lately, Arthur was still an oblivious fool. Well, he’d be taught the wrongness of his ways soon enough. She was so looking forward to his shocked surprise!

But until then, she urgently needed to do something about her own situation. The resources stored in the castle’s basement by Cenred were slowly running out, no matter how carefully she rationed them. No further supporters had joined them so far. And Morgause still had not awakened.

That was the worst part of it. Morgause had been the one with the plan and the connections, and she had not shared the details with her. She was on her own and frankly, she had no idea how to continue. She had no friends and allies in other kingdoms, and she doubted that anyone in Camelot would follow her summons.

The sound of someone clearing their throat discretely woke her from her brooding. Turning around, she saw Sir Gheriet enter the room: once Cenred’s most faithful knight, before Morgause would have put a spell upon him that made him her slave. He was a valiant man, and a wealthy one, who left all his family without protection and his lands lordless, just to follow Morgause on her quest. 

Sometimes Morgana felt sorry for him. On other times she felt nothing but disgust. A man ought to be stronger than become the puppet of the sorceress. But he was still very useful, and so she tried to keep him around until Morgause’s spell would start to fade.

“My lady,” he said with a respectful bow, “you should come to the battlement with me. There is something you need to see.”

Morgana frowned with displeasure. She did not like people ordering her around – especially not people who were supposed to serve her. On the other hand, Sir Gheriet never bothered her unless it was necessary, so she was willing to follow his suggestions… most of the time. This was one of those times, and she followed him to the battlement without comment.

“Well?” she asked impatiently. “What am I supposed to see?”

“Look to the east, my lady,” he answered.

Morgana followed the direction of his outstretched arm and saw at once what he meant. There was a dark spot moving along the road that led directly to the Castle of Fyrien; by the slow, regular speed of its movement most likely a large group of men marching westwards. Here and there was the odd silver spark when the sunlight fell upon them; men wearing armour, then. A small army, most likely. Foot soldiers and men-at-arms, led by a number of knights.

But whose army could it be?

“Do you believe that Arthur has found us out and is sending his troops to capture us?” she asked. 

_That_ would end ugly. Without Morgause to channel her, her raw powers quickly got out of control, and while she found no reason to care about Camelot’s troops, she did not find a massacre particularly appealing.

To her secret relief, Sir Gheriet shook his head. “I don’t think so, my lady. Camelot doesn’t have the manpower to hunt us, and what our spies have told so far, Prince Arthur is more concerned about keeping her people safe… for the time being anyway.”

“Whose army is it then?” asked Morgana.

The knight shrugged. “I hoped _you_ would be able to find out, my lady.”

Morgana understood his meaning. She could send Cwén in close enough to catch a glimpse of the banners and coats-of-arms through the bird’s eye. On the other hand, she had to be very careful. Ravens weren’t generally liked in Camelot. People considered them magical creatures and thus dangerous; it could be that the soldiers would shoot Cwén down at sight – and that would not only mean the loss of a useful messenger but could also become dangerous for her, as they were magically bound.

Still, there wasn’t really any other choice. So she touched the small silver flask hanging around her neck and summoned the raven, with the power of her mind alone. Now that she had the time to work with Cwén regularly, she had become much better at controlling the bird. Only moments after the summoning spell had been finished, she could hear the familiar, hoarse caw, and Cwén dropped from above their heads like a stone, landing right on her outstretched arm.

She suppressed the flash of pain the raven’s claws sinking into her skin caused and opened her mind to the bird’s awareness. She showed Cwén the still far away troops, urging her winged messenger to go there and see more for her. She also warned it to be careful.

Cwén cawed again signalling its understanding and flapped with its wings, rising into the air again.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It took Merlin half the morning just to tell Arthur about his journey to the Lake of Avalon and to the Crystal Cave – mostly because he obeyed the Prince’s order and started his tale from the beginning. Well, _almost_ from the beginning. As far back as Freya’s not-quite-voluntary arrival to Camelot in any case, which was a big enough risk to take, but he could not have explained certain things otherwise.

Arthur was uncharacteristically quiet while Merlin was speaking.

“I’m sorry,” was all he said when Merlin had finished the part of his tale that was related to Freya and her final fate. Merlin shrugged.

“Yeah, so am I, but it was perhaps the best. We cannot be certain that she could ever have got the beast under control… and she suffered greatly from what she’d become.”

“She never hurt _you_ , though,” said Arthur thoughtfully. Merlin nodded.

“True; but we never put her control to test, either. She could very well have killed me, just like all those other people, had the creature slipped its leash. No; as much as I miss her – and always will – it’s better this way. Now she’s free and has peace.”

“She’s also very much dead,” Arthur pointed out grimly. To his surprise, Merlin flashed one of those falsely innocent smiles at him.

“She still does quite a bit of walking and talking for a dead girl,” he replied.

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh; Merlin truly was a weird one. Had anything happened to Guinevere, the Prince would never be able to talk about her so jokingly.

Of course, Guinevere would not be a walking, talking dead girl, either. She would be just… well, _dead_.

The thought of Merlin having a dead girlfriend who had been somehow turned into a water nymph – not to mention shared quarters with the Sidhe and was apparently capable of keeping them at bay somehow – explained, at least, why Merlin had been so certain that the Cup of Life would be safe on the bottom of the Lake of Avalon. It did _not_ , however, explain the visit to the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Especially considering how reluctant Merlin had been to enter said Valley at the first time… a fact that Arthur was now only too happy to point out.

“I didn’t know back then what was hidden deep within the Valley,” replied Merlin with a shrug of those bony shoulders of his.

Arthur frowned. “Well, what _is_ there then?”

“The cave where the Crystal of Neathid came from,” explained Merlin matter-of-factly, conveniently glossing over the fact that it was also the very birthplace of magic. There were things Arthur really did not need to learn about just yet. “The crystals in there show the future… or a _possible_ future, in any case. Or various possible futures. It’s all very confusing. I hoped to find some hints of the whereabouts of this Holy Grail you’re supposed to bring to Camelot.”

“And? Did you find any?” asked the Prince.

“I’m not sure,” Merlin sighed. “I saw many strange and disturbing images, few of which I could explain. Lancelot had visions, too… but we cannot tell for sure whether any of the images the crystals chose to show us had _anything_ to do with the quest that lies before you.”

“You wasted your time, then, as usual?” Arthur felt very annoyed. “Didn’t see a single useful thing?”

“I don’t know what will prove useful, eventually,” answered Merlin patiently. “Only time can tell. There _were_ a few things that seem fairly certain, though.”

“Like what?” asked Arthur doubtfully.

“Like Gwen sitting on the throne, next to you, wearing Morgana’s crown,” said Merlin. “That was an image both Lancelot and I saw. And I believe I saw Morgana at the Castle of Fyrien, in league with someone who looked a lot like Cenred yet wasn’t him. I was also told that Cenred was, in truth, the twin brother of Prince Meleagant of Caerleon.”

“ _What_?” Arthur could not quite trust his own ears; although _that_ would have explained Cenred’s attitude towards Camelot. “Who told you that?”

“The dragon,” replied Merlin simply. Arthur gave him an odd look.

“The dragon,” he repeated. “The same one who gave you a ride home, I suppose.”

“That’s right,” said Merlin. Arthur raised an ironic eyebrow.

“So, does it mean that you’re this great, bad sorcerer who can bend dragons to his will?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. Merlin did not even blink.

“No,” he replied. “Mere sorcerers cannot ride dragons. I told you already: I’m a Dragonlord. The last of my kind, apparently. Just like the Great Dragon is the last of _his_ kind. Your father saw into _that_ successfully.”

“ _You_ are a Dragonlord,” the complete lack of belief was glaringly obvious in Arthur’s voice. “Which makes you different from a sorcerer… how exactly?”

“Sorcerers learn their craft,” answered Merlin promptly. “Dragonlords are _born_.”

“That didn’t seem to help you much when the Great Dragon was attacking Camelot,” commented Arthur dryly. Merlin looked away from him, his jaw clenching.

“My father wasn’t dead yet,” he murmured. “Only by death can the power of a Dragonlord handed down to the next generation; _if_ the son has inherited the ability to accept his father’s gift, that is. Another thing I’ve already told you; you can be a little slow sometimes, you know… _sire_.”

“Your father…” Arthur trailed off, still trying to insert that particular detail into the bigger picture in his head. “Balinor.”

Merlin nodded. “As I said, I hadn’t known myself. Gaius only told me the truth before we’d set off to find him; and only because he wasn’t sure that Balinor would help us otherwise.”

Arthur swallowed hard. Having met someone’s father as an adult for the first time, only to lose him a few days later was a hard thing indeed. Now he understood why Merlin had been crying after Balinor’s funeral. And he’d told him no man as worth crying for! Perhaps Guinevere had been right. Perhaps he _was_ an insensitive bastard.

On the other hand, how was he supposed to know? It wasn’t as if Merlin had told him _anything_!

“I’m sorry,” he offered for the second time. In the light of Merlin’s losses, his own sorrows seemed to be less significant, all of a sudden.

“I know you are,” Merlin flashed him a tired smile. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know it isn’t, but I’m still responsible to a certain extent,” said Arthur. “The sins of the fathers and all that.”

“I never believed that to be true,” said Merlin seriously. “I think we’re responsible for our own sins and mistakes and nothing else. That’s enough for a lifetime to atone for.”

Arthur shook his head in tolerant amusement. “Merlin, what could _you_ possibly have to atone for?”

But Merlin looked at him seriously, with an expression on his gaunt face that was part sorrow and part fear.

“You have no idea… Arthur, what I’m going to reveal now will make you angry with me. Very angry. Probably angry enough to want to kill me. If that’s what you feel you have to do, I shall not defend myself, I promise.”

Arthur stared at him in shock. “Merlin, what are you _talking_ about? Why would I want to kill you? What have you done to deserve death?”

Merlin’s shoulders shagged in defeat. “How, do you think, did the dragon come free in the first place?”

It took Arthur a moment to realize the truth behind that seemingly rhetoric question. Then it felt as if an icy hand had gripped his heart. “ _You? You’ve_ set it free?”

Merlin nodded, his face nothing but a pale mask of regret and terror. “Remember the Knights of Medhir? The sleeping spell of Morgause that befell Camelot, making it wide open and vulnerable to any attack? I didn’t know how to break it, so I went to the only one who might have been able to help: to the Great Dragon. And he was only willing to help if I swore by the life of my mother that I’ll release him.”

“And a fat lot of good came out of it,” Arthur muttered accusingly. “Camelot nearly got destroyed anyway – by that cursed dragon itself!”

“How was I supposed to know that?” asked Merlin tiredly. “I _begged_ Kilgharrah not to harm Camelot… but until my father died, I had no means to stop him from doing so.”

“But you _did_ stop it in the end, didn’t you?” asked the Prince. Merlin nodded. “ _How_?”

“It was… really strange,” admitted Merlin. “When we faced the Great Dragon together, I could suddenly hear the voice of my father in my head. He told me what to do; taught me the words that would tame the dragon.”

“What happened then?” asked Arthur, as Merlin had fallen silent.

“He bent to my will, and ceased his attack,” answered Merlin after a lengthy pause. “In exchange, I let him go.”

“And ever since that day, you run to it for help and advice?” Arthur pressed.

Merlin gave him a mirthless grin. “I’ve done that ever since the day I came to Camelot. He’d called to me as soon as I set foot into the castle. I could hear it in my head. All part of being a Dragonlord, I guess.”

“Three years,” said Arthur, having digested _that_ for a while. “You’ve kept this from me for three _years_.”

“Yes,” admitted Merlin with brutal honesty. “I wanted to stay alive, you know. When I arrived in Camelot, I was right on time to see the son of that old witch being beheaded. What do you think would your father have done, had he found out that I was visiting the dragon he kept imprisoned under the castle?”

Arthur could not say anything to that; the answer was too obvious.

“Is there anything else you haven’t told me yet?” he asked after a while.

“Yes,” answered Merlin simply.

“And you aren’t telling me the rest just yet?” clarified Arthur.

“No,” replied Merlin. “It would be too soon.”

Arthur rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Merlin, I think you still don’t realize which one of us decides when it’s time for things to happen here. Or is your brain too addled to recognize the Crown Prince when he isn’t actually _wearing_ the dratted crown?”

“Oh, I recognize you just fine,” Merlin tried to sound merry but the heaviness of his voice betrayed his true feelings. “A royal prat like you isn’t easily mistaken for anyone else, with or without crown. That’s not what matters here, though. The real question is: do you trust me or not?”

“It’s kind of a pointless question, after you’ve just confessed having lied to me all the time,” commented Arthur. But under the harsh tone, there was a lingering sadness in his voice. Sadness… and disappointment.

“I kept secrets from you to save my own life,” corrected Merlin. “That’s not the same. Think about it: in all these years, did I ever harm you, or anyone else in Camelot? Can you remember a single event when I’d have been anything but loyal to you?”

Arthur shook his head mutely. As much as he tried, he could not come up with such a memory. Merlin might have acted against his _father_ ’s orders – hell, sometimes even ordered by him to do so! – but he had never, ever acted against _him_.

Merlin saw the unspoken answer on his face and shrugged. “Here you have it, then. You must decide whether you’ll continue trusting me or not.”

“I… I’ll have to think about this,” said Arthur after a lengthy silence.

Merlin nodded. “I understand that, sire. It’s a lot to take in; and I’d understand if you decided that you cannot trust me, after all.” 

The possibility of losing Arthur’s trust and friendship hurt more than he had imagined it would whenever he had thought about how to tell the Prince the truth; or at least part of the truth. But there was no way around it – he had to accept the outcome, whatever it would be.

“Whatever you decide, I’ll accept it,” he added quietly. “I won’t run away. You can find me in my mother’s house.”

He rose and bowed swiftly and left the Fairie Tower. Arthur remained there for the rest of the morning, thinking. His entire world had just been turned upside down. Merlin, whom he had come to think of as harmless – and as something close to a friend – had been lying to him all the time. He was a bloody _Dragonlord_! His idiot of a manservant, a Dragonlord! What was he supposed to do about that knowledge? And how was he supposed to trust Merlin unconditionally again, now that he knew that he was still harbouring secrets?

He wished there were someone he could share this with – but he couldn’t. Merlin might have lied to him, but one thing was true: he had always been loyal. And Arthur was not repaying his loyalty by getting him executed.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Looking down at the marching army from a great height through Cwén’s vision, Morgana watched the foreign soldiers approaching the Castle of Fyrien with dread. Being raised and educated – albeit never acknowledged – as the daughter of a king, she knew what to look for when counting troops, and she estimated their members to be about two thousand; all well-fed and well-armed, bearing the argent shield of Caerleon with the twin hawks on it.

She had grown up with the bloody and glorious tales of Uther’s war against Caerleon – the very war that had led to the near-destruction of the Castle of Fyrien. Caerleon was the arch enemy of Camelot, had been for longer than people could remember. And while Morgana had no sympathies for her father, she did not want Camelot to fall into the hands of Caerleon. Camelot was _hers_ ; or would be again, one day.

In the first row of the marching army rode a tall, dark-haired man, in that easy, slightly slouched position only very good riders could afford: clearly the warlord commanding all these troops. He was clad in black armour, yet without a helmet. The hilts of two swords, worn cross-wise across his broad back, could be seen above his heavy shoulders. He seemed strangely familiar: his shape, the way he carried himself, even his colouring. But only when Cwén swept down closer and the warlord looked up at the bird, as if he knew he was being watched, could Morgana see his face.

“Cenred!” she whispered in shock. “But that’s not possible! He’s dead!”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Yes, he is,” said Sir Gheriet later, when she described the vision to him, his eyes cold with hatred; under the spell or not, his true loyalty still belonged to his young King, whom Morgause had casually killed by one of her immortal soldiers. “But that man down there isn’t him.”

“Who is it then?” asked Morgana. “He looks just like him, in everything.”

“In that case it could only be Prince Meleagant of Caerleon,” replied Sir Gheriet with dark satisfaction, “the twin brother of my King.”

Morgana stared at the knight in shock. “Cenred was of Caerleon?”

Sir Gheriet looked back at her in equal surprise. “You did not know?” Morgana shook her head, and the knight frowned. “Odd that your sister wouldn’t tell you something of such importance.”

“You mean Morgause knew about it?” Morgana was still shocked.

The knight nodded, darkly amused. “Of course she did. Where, do you think, did she live after fleeing from Camelot?”

“I… I thought she was raised by the priestesses of the Old Religion,” muttered Morgana.

“She was,” agreed Sir Gheriet, “but they don’t tolerate anyone on the Isle of the Blessed who wasn’t _born_ with magic. So they needed a safe place for her to grow up – and that happened to be Caerleon, where magic is _not_ outlawed.”

“What do you mean _not born with magic_?” demanded Morgana angrily. “Morgause is the most powerful sorceress of the Isles!”

“I know that,” replied the knight bitterly; it wasn’t so as if he hadn’t been aware of the fact that he was being kept on Morgause’s side by sorcery. “That’s exactly what she is: a sorceress. Her kind isn’t _born_ with magic; they _learn_ it through long years of practice. Only those with Druidic blood in their veins are born with magic – or the princesses of the House Llyr.”

“But… but I was born this way,” said Morgana, completely bewildered. “How can it be that my sister was not?”

“You are only half-sisters,” reminded her the knight. “Somewhere in the bloodline the two of you do _not_ share must have been either a Druid or a royal daughter of Llyr. The gift sometimes oversprings a generation or two – but it always resurfaces after a while.”

Morgana couldn’t hold back the almost hysterical laughter that bubbled up in her throat. “So I have magic because I’m the daughter of Uther Pendragon?”

“Apparently so,” agreed Sir Gheriet with a thin smile. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“ _Ironic_ is not the word I would use,” Morgana tried to bring her shock and anger under control; there were more important concerns at the moment. “What are we supposed to do about the troops of Caerleon, though? What can we expect from them? Are they here to bring war to Camelot – or to make a claim on Cenred’s kingdom?”

“With only two thousand men, it’s unlikely that they’d want to wage war against Camelot… at least not yet,” replied the knight thoughtfully. “I suppose Prince Meleagant wants to try his hand on ruling a kingdom of his own. My King rarely spoke about his home, but I do know that his father, while considerably older than Uther Pendragon, is still in his prime. It would take a long time for the Crown Prince yet to become King of Caerleon.”

“While here he’d have a legal claim on Cenred’s orphaned realm,” Morgana finished for him.

The knight nodded. “Yes. And I doubt not that the barons and landowners of my King would readily accept him. I know _I would_ ,” he added grimly, not leaving any doubts about his true loyalties.

“And what are we to expect from Prince Meleagant?” asked Morgana.

“Those who swear fealty to him can count on serving a valiant and generous King,” answered Sir Gheriet. “But he has no fond memories of Morgause – no-one in Caerleon does, according to my King – so he might not take _you_ in with open arms, my lady.”

“Do you think he’d try to extract his vengeance from Morgause and me for the death of Cenred?” asked Morgana. She wasn’t truly worried about that. If she had to, she could slay the Prince with her wild magic alone. Still, forging alliances would be useful.

“He’d do more than just _try_ , at least where Morgause is concerned,” replied the knight. “As for you, my lady – that’s something you’ll have to arrange with him yourself. I cannot help you.”

“Cannot or would not?” asked Morgana icily. The knight shrugged.

“Lady, the spell your sister has put on me forces me to do your bidding. So, I shall go down to speak to Prince Meleagant on your behalf if that’s what you want. But I believe he would wish to meet you in person and decide for himself if he wants to forge an alliance with you or not… even though you are the sister of Morgause.”

“I won’t let him harm my sister,” declared Morgana. The knight smiled darkly.

“Don’t forget that magic is _not_ outlawed in Caerleon, my lady. On the contrary, it has been nurtured and honed for uncounted centuries. Prince Meleagant would doubtlessly have servants around him powerful enough to take it up with you and with your sister.”

“We shall see,” returned Morgana, her voice cold. “Go down now and tell him that I want to meet him.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Hunith had been waiting with bated breath all morning. She had done her work at Gaius’ infirmary half-heartedly at best and was grateful that the health of the ailing knights had already been improved considerably. She was not sure she would be able to deal with a serious crisis properly. One of the serving maids had seen Merlin enter the castle, and then go somewhere in Prince Arthur’s company. They had not been seen since then.

She had always known the day would come when Merlin would have no other choice than to tell his master the truth. Merlin had _wanted_ to tell Arthur the truth, to have the Prince see him for who – for _what_ he really was. He wanted to be appreciated, and how could one blame him for _that_? He had saved the Prince and Camelot uncounted times and never got any credit for it. That must have been frustrating for a young man – after all, did not all young men crave the respect of their peers?

But Merlin’s gift was an unusual one; one that could have caused his public execution, had King Uther learned about it – or Prince Arthur been too shocked by he revelation that his manservant had lied to him throughout all these years. The young Prince Regent was said to be a fair judge, and Hunith had come to know him as one of generous heart, but he had also been raised in the knowledge, no matter how prejudiced that 'knowledge' might be, that all magic was evil. 

Would he be able to rise above his indoctrination? Would his friendship to Merlin, unlikely as it had been from the beginning, survive in the harsh light of truth? Hunith felt that she had good reason to be worried.

William, on the other hand, seemed to think differently.

“The Prince might treat Merlin as an idiot,” he said, “but he listens to him nonetheless. He already did so years ago, when they hired me to play my part at the tournament. I’m quite sure he does even more so now.”

“Besides,” added Zulfiya, who had come to help Hunith harvesting what herbs had been still growing wild in the small garden behind Mistress Alice’s house in all the years of her absence, “what you’ve told me about Merlin makes me believe strongly that he’s more than capable of saving himself if needs must be.”

“He might have the powers for it,” said Hunith quietly, “but he might not _want_ to do so. His friendship with Prince Arthur means the world to him. If Arthur rejects him, or even turns against him, he might not make the effort to save himself. He does not make friends easily; but once he embraces someone as a friend, he gives his heart fully – even if there’s a good chance that they'll break it.”

“Is that not how every true friendship works?” asked Zulfiya. “Whenever we open our hearts to someone, we risk being hurt by them.”

“Hurt – but not executed in the courtyard of the castle,” pointed out William. “There’s a difference.”

“For our beloved ones perhaps,” allowed Zulfiya. “For us – not necessarily. I for my part would consider the betrayal of a trusted friend worse than death. But you need not to worry, Mistress Hunith; not today. It seems that Merlin has managed to placate the Dragon Prince once again. There he comes.”

The others followed the direction in which she was looking and spotted the gangly figure in the brick red jacket approaching quickly between the stalls of the food merchants. He looked a bit paler than usual and more than a little tired, but otherwise hale, with his ears sticking out of the unruly mop of his dark hair, his blue eyes twinkling.

“Merlin!” Hunith cried out in relief, and dropping everything in her hands, she all but flew in the open arms of her wonderful and special son.

Merlin laughed, picked her up and whirled around with her, as if she were but a child – who would have expected such strength from those scrawny arms of his? – and then put her down again, smiling broadly.

“It’s all right, Mother,” he said. “I’m here now.”

“You took your time,” replied his mother tartly. “First you’re gone for weeks, no message, no nothing. Then you come back in a manner that could have cost your head, and then don’t bother to come home for the rest of the day.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin looked contrite,” but I had to talk to Arthur before he would learn about the… the _manner_ of my return from someone else. That would not bode well.”

Hunith nodded in understanding. She was not truly angry with him; it was only so that she needed to vent her worries for a moment.

“No, it would not. How much did you tell him?”

“About my father,” answered Merlin with a sigh. “There was no other way to explain the dragon; or how it escaped a year and a half ago in the first place.”

“How did Arthur take _that_?” asked Hunith, well aware of Merlin’s active role in the Great Dragon’s escape. Merlin shrugged.

“As well as it could be expected, I guess. I still have my head; whether we can repair the broken trust between us is another matter entirely. Only time will show.”

“Does he know that there are still things you haven’t told him yet?” asked Hunith.

Merlin nodded. “Yes. I was honest with him in that point.”

“And he accepted that?” Hunith searched the face of her son worriedly for any signs of doubt.

“He said he’d have to think about it,” Merlin shrugged. “I cannot blame him for being a bit shocked. Sparing me goes against everything he’s been taught all his life; even not knowing the whole truth about me, he’s defying his father’s orders.”

“At least he is willing to think,” said Hunith. “That’s the first step towards understanding.”

“I hope so,” murmured Merlin, “for what am I supposed to do when he turns against me? The dragon said that we are the two sides of the same coin, and what I’ve learned on my recent journey has shown me the true depths of that truth. He’s my destiny; it has been foretold hundreds of years ago, and if we fail, Albion will tumble into chaos.”

“Enough brooding,” Hunith interrupted sternly. “You look thinner than ever; come in and have something to eat while your _destiny_ is thinking. We don’t have much, but it will be enough. Fortunately, we are simple folk that learned early on to live on very little.”

That was only true, and Merlin followed his mother into the house, smiling in anticipation.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Morgana waited in the Great Hall for Sir Gheriet to return with their… well, calling them _guests_ would have been a euphemism, considering that the Prince of Caerleon had come with an army, while she had but a handful of servants at her disposal. The knight’s words had worried her greatly; a powerful sorceress she might be, but she still was not well-trained in using her magic. If Meleagant had surrounded himself with sorcerers and witches, she might be beaten in her own game. Moreover, as Morgause was still unconscious and thus helpless, she could not support her in any way.

But that could not be helped. She had to face this new adversary – or potential ally – without help, and she had to do so without showing any fear or uncertainty. _That_ would be lethal. Only one displaying strength was in the position to negotiate with success. Uther had taught her _that_ particular lesson well.

She squared her shoulders, hearing the echoing sound of heavy boot on the stone floor. In the next moment, the door flung open.

One had to give Prince Meleagant _that_ : he was certainly no coward. Entering the hall of an unknown power, only upon the word of a knight spell-bound to a sorceress he considered his enemy required a great deal of courage. He did not even bring the full contingent of his guards with him: only one man, clad in black like himself, and a small, richly-clad, veiled figure, barely taller than a ten-year-old child. 

She – for she was clearly a woman of some age – wore a dress of heavy pfallel silk under a hooded cape of dark velvet, blacker than a civet cat. Silver from Al-Andalus gleamed thereon, wrought as many twin sea-hawks, the emblem of the House of Llyr. Her headdress was tall and shining, with multi-layered silk veils pulled before her face. Only her eyes, yellow as topazes and slanted like those of a cat, were visible over to hem of her veils; and her bristling black eyebrows that would have put a wild boar to shame.

“His Highness Crown Prince Meleagant of Caerleon, son and heir to King Baudemagus and Queen Secundille, and his entourage,” announced Sir Gheriet loudly and with apparent respect.

The man in the black armour, who looked like Cenred and yet wasn’t him, looked her up and down – twice. It wasn’t however, the look of a man assessing the beauty of a woman. It was rather the look of a warlord assessing the strengths and the weaknesses of an adversary – or a possible ally.

“So, this is the infamous Lady Morgana,” he said; even his deep, rough voice was just like that of Cenred’s had been. “Beloved ward and dispossessed daughter of the great Uther Pendragon. Failed Queen of Camelot that would not have her.”

Morgana resisted the urge to slam him into the next best wall by the sheer power of her fury. Satisfying though _that_ might have been, she had to take the richly clad, veiled little figure into consideration. That one must have been a sorceress – she could feel the power radiating from her – an unknown factor Morgana found better to be careful with.

“Better than coming to kingship by the accidental death of one’s brother,” she returned sharply. “At least I’ve come to my crown by my own devices, short though my first reign turned out to be.”

“Have you?” said the Prince of Caerleon, darkly amused. “Was it not your sister who bent the people to her will to do your bidding? How many of your followers, including that deluded brother of mine, have ever joined your case out of their own free will?”

Morgana tried to find a witty riposte – but she could not. The sad truth was that the master plan had been Morgause’s, the contacts had been Morgause’s, and she had been the one to win Cenred over to their side, using enchantment and her female viles.

As if reading her thoughts, Meleagant nodded grimly.

“I see you’re beginning to understand that you were as much a puppet in her hands as my brother was. She hates Uther for betraying her father by seducing his wife – and she hates _you_ , because you were born with a raw power she could never hope to achieve.”

“That’s not true,” said Morgana. “She’s much more powerful than I am.”

“She’s strong for someone without inborn magic,” allowed the Prince, “but would you be trained properly, she would pale into nothingness next to you. Let’s face it, Queen Morgana: she used you, just like she used my brother, to rise to a position of power and influence she would never have achieved otherwise.”

“No, you’re wrong!” protested Morgana. “She’s not like that. She only did all this to help me reclaim my birthright. You don’t know her at all!”

“Oh, I know her well enough,” replied the Prince with a dark flash of hatred in his eyes. “She used me the same way she used everyone else. And when she had from me what she wanted – a forbidden child, born of the night on both sides – she took my son and left me.”

Morgana looked at him in shock. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the ancient law forbidding a warrior Prince from the House Llyr to have a child with a sorceress from the House Don,” he explained grimly. “Llyr men are born of the night and they are of water and earth. Don women, too, are born of the night, but they are of fire and air. A child born from such a union can have great powers; but being born of the night on both sides, it is also drawn to darkness and evil. Such a child has your sister wrestled from me.”

“If you knew the danger of siring such a child, why did you then consent?” asked Morgana.

To her surprise, it was Sir Gheriet who answered. “He did not. He was ensnared by the way of dark magic, like I was. Morgause never cared about the people she used to reach her goals.”

“But why would she want a cursed child?” Morgana still couldn’t understand it.

“The child may be cursed,” said the little veiled one in that scratchy voice of hers that sounded just like Cwén’s. “But it also possesses great powers. The only one who can hope to stop him is Emrys, of whom the ancient prophecies speak. Emrys, who is destined to help Arthur Pendragon unite Albion again.”

“That’s _one_ prophecy that won’t come true; not as long as I’m still among the living,” said Meleagant harshly. “Whoever this Emrys may be, I doubt he would be strong enough to beat both my son and the Lady Morgana – if their powers are nurtured to full strength.”

“That is true,” agreed the little sorceress. “The prophecies also say that the child and Morgana, united in power, will cause the fall of Arthur Pendragon. And then, my lord, _you_ will be the one to unite Albion, under _your_ rule and under the banner of House Llyr.”

“Hopefully with the Lady Morgana on my side,” said Meleagant courteously.

Morgana made a rather un-ladylike snort. “Forget it. I won’t marry you.”

“I would reconsider if I were you,” said the little sorceress. “Only the virgin priestesses of the Old Religion, the Nine who live on the Isle of the Blessed, can unfold their full potential while remaining untouched. You’re not one of them. Do you want to remain a little girl who’s afraid of her raw powers forever?”

“I’m not a little girl!” snapped Morgana indignantly. “And I’m most certainly not afraid of my own powers.”

“Oh yes, you are,” said the sorceress. “It paralyzes you; you only dare to use your gift when in danger. You could do better… much better. Besides, no woman has ever complained about the prowess of Prince Meleagant – not even that ungrateful bitch that’s your sister.”

“Well, I’m not my sister,” returned Morgana tartly.

“No,” the little sorceress agreed. “ _She_ was never afraid to take what she wanted… or needed. You cannot have your cake _and_ eat it, girl. You must _choose_. And once you’ve chosen, you must _act_. Do you want to become the greatest sorceress of Albion? Do you want your crown and your throne back?”

“I do and I will,” said Morgana stubbornly.

The veiled one nodded. “Then you must shed the girl you used to be and become a woman who’s in charge of her own fate.”

“It doesn’t mean I have to choose _him_ , though,” said Morgana, pointing with her chin at the Prince of Caerleon.

”You must not,” confirmed the little sorceress, “but you should. Unless you want to lie with Olaf or Odin, you won’t find any other King powerful enough to bend Camelot under your sceptre again. And if you make Mordred choose between you and his own father, are you truly certain that he will choose _you_?”

“Mordred?” repeated Morgana, shocked to hear that name. “You mean the Druid boy we saved from the execution two years ago? _That_ Mordred is his _son_?”

Meleagant nodded. “Yes, he _is_ my forbidden son, though I’ve never laid eyes on him. Morgause stole him away right after his birth and fled to the Druids. But they sensed the darkness in the child and took it from her before she could have poisoned his soul. They raised the boy like one of their own...”

“Until his mentor made the mistake to visit Camelot with him,” Morgana finished for him.

Meleagant’s eyes widened in suspicion. “And how would you know about that?”

“How do _I know_ about it?” repeated Morgana, laughing, although there was just a touch of hysteria in her voice. “ _I was_ the one who helped him escape the pyre; with the help of Arthur and his idiot manservant, that would-be sorcerer! Without me, he’d have been burned, to make an example of how seriously my _father_ ,” she almost spat the word, “meant his crusade against magic.”

“ _You_ saved him?” said Meleagant in surprise. “Then I’m in your debt, my lady. Can you tell me where he might be now?”

Morgana shook her head in regret. “I fear not. Last time I met him was when we tried to lift the Crystal of Neathid from the vaults beneath Camelot. Alvarr assumed that it could become a powerful weapon in the hand of one who could wield it – which would have been Mordred, in his opinion.”

“Or a tool of utter destruction,” said the little sorceress. “Knowing the future is a double-edged blade; and the Crystal only shows a _possible_ future, which the observer may prevent… or bring about in the first place, by trying to _prevent_ it. Messing with the Crystal has only ever caused grief for every single one who’s ever peered into its depths.”

“Have you ever…” Morgana trailed off as the little sorceress shook her head.

“No; the beginning of all wisdom is to know what you ought to leave well alone. In that point I can claim to have gained sufficient wisdom. In all other things, I’m still learning; and will most likely be doing so for the rest of my days.”

“The Dame Cundrie is too modest,” said Meleagant. “I happen to know that she’s learned, more than any other woman in Albion. She speaks the tongue of Al-Andalus as well as those in the Frankish countries, and she knows the art of dialectic, geometry and astronomy. But before all else, she knows how to wield magic, both to attack and to protect. She has taught Morgause, too, after that witch had left the Isle of the Blessed to wreak havoc among our own people.”

“Much to my regret,” added the little sorceress. “Had I known her intentions, I would have smote her the moment she entered Caerleon. My loyalty lies with my young Princes, and she has made a bitter enemy of me when she betrayed them. Now the time of reckoning has finally come.”

“I won’t let you kill her!” stated Morgana with a confidence she did not truly feel.

Cundrie shrugged her bony shoulders under the layers of rich and expensive fabric she was wearing. “You cannot stop me, girl. I can destroy you with a single spell.”

Not willing to give up just yet, Morgana turned to Meleagant. “You said you were in my debt, for saving the life of your son. I’m collecting that debt now: the life of my sister for the life of your son. A life for a life is a fair bargain, according the customs of Albion, is it not?”

“You are in no position to demand such things, Lady Morgana,” replied the Prince of Caerleon,” and you shall learn yet that the customs of Albion mean but little to me. No debt in this world would be large enough for me to let Morgause roam these lands freely again. She has caused too much harm already, and will cause even more if left to her own devices. However,” he added with a dark smile, “I might be persuaded to spare her _life_ , albeit in eternal imprisonment, should you agree to be my Queen and rule my late brother’s kingdom with me… for the beginning. Until we grow strong enough to take Camelot as well… and to bend the other small kingdoms under our sceptre.”

Morgana glared at him with an angry frown. “You’re clearly insane!”

“On the contrary,” Meleagant kept smiling that dark little smile of his. “You’ve got fire and raw power like no other woman I’ve ever met. When Cundrie has taught you how to use your powers, you and my son together will bring about the fall of the House Pendragon and make me the High King of a united Albion. You can have Camelot as your own kingdom as much as I care; and wouldn’t the three of us make a wonderful family?”

“I can see what _you_ would gain from this alliance,” said Morgana scathingly. “But where would be the gain for _me_?”

Meleagant shrugged. “I’ll give you your kingdom and your vengeance. All _you_ ’d give me is your maidenhood; is that truly such a high price? Sooner or later, you _shall_ have to take someone to your bed to unleash your full power. Who else can ensure that you’d get your crown back – or that you’d enjoy the way leading there half as much as you would on my side?”

He was full of himself, no doubt about that, but Morgana had the feeling that there was more behind it than just overblown self-confidence. After all, had he not served and fought for his father and for Caerleon the same way Arthur had done for Uther and for Camelot, only for a considerably longer time? He was apparently a skilled warrior and an experienced ruler; a King in all but by crown and title. A man used to lead armies and to win wars. A man, just coming into his best years, beyond the faults of hot-headed youths, in his vigorous prime.

And as for sharing his bed? He was strong and good-looking, in that ruggedly handsome way of his. He had to be skilled, too, if he had managed to satisfy Morgause, who had demanded much from her lovers, even if she only used them to reach a particular goal each time. Morgana never truly wanted to marry – mostly because she’d always known that hers would have to be a dynastic marriage, one supposed to strengthen Camelot’s position among the countless petty kingdoms of Albion – but if it had to be, then she wanted no joyless marriage. She wanted to be given her due in the marriage bed as well.

“You swear that my sister shan't be killed?” she asked.

Meleagant nodded. “I swear by the crest of the House Llyr and by the name of my father King Baudemagus. She’ll be rendered harmless, but she will live; and she’ll not feel the burden of her imprisonment, I promise. Dame Cundrie will see to that.”

“But how…” Morgana trailed off.

“You’ll be allowed to witness the casting of the spell,” promised Meleagant. “We shall leave her behind, safely entombed under the seal of powerful magic, yet alive… sleeping, in a way. Should somewhen in the future anyone be able to break Cundrie’s spell, say in a hundred years or two, she’ll be given a second chance to make the best of her life she can. But not during my lifetime, or that of my son. I don’t want her to interfere with our lives again. So… what is your answer?”

Morgana thought about the offer some more, but there weren’t truly that many choices left to her. She could try to gain back her kingdom and her crown on her own, which seemed increasingly unlikely without Morgause and a strong ally – or she could accept Meleagant’s offer, become his Queen and learn all hidden secrets of sorcery from the Dame Cundrie, growing in power steadily, until she reached her final goal: the throne of Camelot and the utter fall of the House Pendragon.

How could she resist _that_?

“Very well,” she said. “I accept. What’s the next step, then?”

Meleagant grinned at her. “We shall consummate our bond tonight; just so that you won’t change your mind. Then Dame Cundrie will cast her spell. Once Morgause is safely entombed, we shall leave for Melwas’ realm, to rule it as King and Queen – until we grow strong enough to expand.”

“Melwas?” repeated Morgana with a frown. “You mean Cenred, right? You should get used to the name he chose for himself; his staunch supporters won’t recognize his old name.”

“So speaketh a true Queen, ready to take charge,” Meleagant grinned and kissed her hand with flourish. “Shall we retreat to our bedchamber, my lady?”

Morgana nodded. “The sooner we get this thing done, the sooner can we leave this accursed place. For me, it cannot be soon enough. We’ll need witnesses, though.”

“I know,” Meleagant thought for a moment. “Dame Cundrie could do it.”

“That won’t be enough,” reminded him Morgana. “When a royal bride is bedded for the first time, the law requires _at least_ two nobly-born witnesses. I guess Sir Gheriet and your knight here would have to do.”

“And their presence won’t bother you?” asked Meleagant. Usually, the witnesses of a royal wedding night were chosen from the ladies of the court – only that there were none in the Castle of Fyrien.

Morgana shrugged. “I would prefer women, yes, but we have to bow to the necessity of the situation. I shall manage.”

In truth, she even found something darkly exciting by the thought of being watched by such strong, powerful men while taken by her future husband and King for the first time. She was not telling him _that_ , though. The days when she would naïvely fell for the charm of men like Alvarr were irrevocably gone. She would never serve the purposes of a man again – unless that man would serve _her_ goals in exchange. Like Meleagant.

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” she asked impatiently. “Let’s be done with this!”

Meleagant grinned. “You speak of it as of some unpleasant burden, my lady. But you will learn to look forward to the pleasures shared in our bed… in time.”

Morgana did not even deign _that_ with an answer.


	10. The Choices of Princess Elena of Gawant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story derivates from both the series canon and the legends. Hence the different outcome of the events in Corbenic.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 10 – THE CHOICES OF PRINCESS ELENA OF GAWANT**

The small entourage of Princess Elena rode homewards at a fairly moderate speed. They had been released from the obligation of silence as soon as they left the immediate area of the Holy Well, but the Princess seemed unusually sombre, and so the men refrained from talking among themselves, too. It was not the most comfortable journey, moreso as they could all see that something was bothering their lady, yet no-one dared to ask _what_ it was.

Young Gwilim was the first who gathered enough courage to break the silence; but again, he had been favoured by her ever since his arrival in Gawant.

“Princess, something is clearly bothering you,” he said carefully. “And yet you chose to keep it from us. Can I help?”

Elena shook her head. She knew that Gwilim was more than a mere servant and groom – she had seen him practicing with the sword and even casting spells when he thought to be unobserved. Besides, she had a sixth sense to feel magic in other people, and that ring of his was clearly a magic item. Not that it would bother her. The laws of Camelot were not binding for Corbenic, even if her father tried to humour Uther, most of the time.

“You could,” she said. “But you’re not allowed to.”

Gwilim made big eyes at that. “You’re speaking in riddles, Princess.”

“I’m sorry, but I must not speak any clearer,” she replied. “So remember this: should we be attacked on our way home, you’re _not_ allowed to interfere. Let my father’s men do the fighting; that’s why he sent them with us.”

“But I could disarm – or even dismember – any attackers without breaking a sweat!” protested Gwilim.

Elena nodded. “I know. Which is why Mistress Alys sent you with me.”

“Then why am I not allowed to protect you?” asked Gwilim in a low voice full of distress. 

Elena sighed. “Because – according to the priestess – I’m supposed to meet my destiny this way.”

“By being abducted or murdered while I’m standing by, doing nothing?” demanded the young man incredulously.

“No,” replied Elena. “By allowing the knight pre-destined to come to my rescue to do so.”

“And if he arrives too late?” asked Gwilim darkly.

“Then you may interfere,” answered the Princess. “I don’t wish any of these men to pay with their lives for my so-called destiny. Should they be in danger to be slain, do your worst.”

“What about your destiny, though? What if my interference costs you a King as a husband or a kingdom of your own?” Gwilim pressed.

Elena shrugged. “So be it. I wouldn’t wish to wear a crown paid by the blood of my subjects. What sort of Queen would _that_ make me?”

“One whom her subjects found worth the sacrifice,” said Gwilim slowly.

Elena shrugged again. “That might be so; I still would not want a crown bought at such a terrible price. I’m content to be who I am.”

They were interrupted by the thundering of hooves. It sounded as if a large group of horsemen would be catching up with them quickly. The leader of the men-at-arms wanted to increase their own speed, but Elena, knowing that her supposed rescuer would need to catch up with them as well, did not allow it.

“It would be of little use,” she said. “Our palfreys have not been trained to outrun what sounds like warhorses. Sound your horn for any patrols of my father’s knights who may be close; if they are, they’ll come to our aid. Other than that, the wisest thing is to stop by that spring ahead of us and take on defensive formation. Who knows, the people following us might even be friendly.”

The man seemed sceptical about _that_ , but did as ordered. They reached the spring – a well-known one for all who travelled along this path regularly – and the men surrounded the Princess like a live wall, swords and shields on the ready. Shortly thereafter, a group of about two dozen armed and mounted men burst forth from the woods, led by a stocky knight of middle height and about thirty and five years of age. He had a round face, short-cropped, dark hair and piercing black eyes, his helm hanging from his saddle.

But it was the seal on his shield – and embossed upon the breast of his sleeveless surcoat – that made Elena sigh and roll her eyes in exasperation.

“Sir Bromel,” she said in a long-suffering manner. “What is it that you want from me _this_ time? Don’t you have your own Samhain rituals to attend to?”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Arthur did not show his face before the court for the rest of the day. He remained in his chambers, thinking about all the shocking news he had learned from Merlin and considering his possible choices. Finally, shortly before the still-standing curfew, he ordered Ivanneth, the page of Dame Guinevere, to ask his mistress to see him, despite the late hour. Gwen arrived a short time later, clearly worried.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Word from Lancelot?”

That Lancelot would be her first concern shocked Arthur a bit, but he could not back off, now that he had made up his mind – not that he would want to, either.

“None yet,” he replied. “There’s something else we need to discuss, though. Something that, admittedly, concerns Lancelot as well as us both.”

“Oh,” said Gwen in surprise. “What could _that_ possibly be?”

Arthur waved impatiently. “Don’t play games with me, Guinevere! I know you still have… _feelings_ for him; a blind man could see that. However, I hoped that you would have some feelings for me, too.”

“I do!” Gwen’s eyes were wide and brimming with tears. “Are you asking me to choose between the two of you?”

“I have to,” replied Arthur. “It seems that Merlin and Lancelot made a little detour to the Crystal Cave and risked a look into the magic crystals there. Independently from each other, they both saw a vision of _you_ , sitting on my side on the throne, wearing Morgana’s crown.”

“Does that mean I’m destined to choose _you_?” asked Gwen skeptically.

Arthur shook his head. “No. Gaius tells me that the future is as yet unshaped; we shape it, with the decisions we make, with he deeds we do. The crystals only show us _possible_ futures. It’s up to us to make them come true.”

“And _that_ makes you think that it would be possible for the blacksmith’s daughter to become Queen of Camelot?” Gwen still was not quite buying it, tempting though the idea might be.

Arthur shrugged. “Why not? There would be scandal and outrage, for certain, but if the crystals say it’s possible, then it _is_ possible.”

“Perhaps so,” allowed Gwen. “But why would you wish to marry a lowly-born peasant and risk your father’s wrath when you could wed a perfectly suitable princess?”

“I don’t want a perfectly suitable princess,” replied Arthur simply. “I want _you_ , if you would only have me. And as for my father’s wrath: he’s not yet taken back the Sceptre from me. _I am_ the Prince Regent, and my word is law… _if_ I manage to persuade Sir Ector, that is.”

“I might be able to help with _that_ ,” said Gwen. “You see, the truth is, Tom Blacksmith was _not_ my father. Well, he was like a father to me, for sure, in all but blood, and I loved him like a father, too, but he’d not been the one who sired me.”

“Who was it then?” snippets of gossip only half-overheard came back to Arthur in a rush. “Surely not Sir Leontes?”

“I wish!” answered Gwen with a sad little smile. “No; actually, it was Tauren.”

“The sorcerer?” asked Arthur in shock. Gwen sighed.

“He was a bit more than just that; I asked Master Geoffrey to look up his ancestors for me. It seems that he was a nobleman of Mercia, with quite some lands to his name; even related to King Bayard from afar.”

“So it was for Bayard, then, that he tried to murder my father?’” Arthur’s voice was harsh and unforgiving.

Gwen shook her head. “No; he was truly a sorcerer, who saw it as his calling to bring magic back to all places where it was suppressed – including Camelot.”

“Wait a moment!” another long-forgotten detail came back to Arthur. “He used to visit the house of Sir Leontes before the Great Purge, didn’t he?”

Gwen nodded. “The two families had been befriended for generations. That’s how he met my mother; as you know, she was the Lady Madelyn’s maid. She was also a daughter of the House Llyr; from a bastard line, for sure, and no longer considered nobility, but that might be the reason Tauren chose her. He was a sorcerer of House Don; perhaps he hoped for a child with powerful magic coming out of their union.”

“Did your mother have magic, too?” asked Arthur warily.

“Not that I’d know, but I was quite young when she died,” replied Gwen. “Whether she did or not, I certainly haven’t inherited any of it, from either side. I know a little about herbs, but even that I mostly learned from Gaius.”

Arthur secretly admitted himself that _that_ was a comforting thought. “How long have you known? About your true father, I mean?”

“Not for very long,” Gwen avoided looking him in the eye. “Since my father – my father Tom – was executed. Tauren sought me out – he wanted the Mage Stone back – and told me the truth about my origins.”

“Is there any proof of this?” asked Arthur. "He might have lied, just so that you would get him that accursed Stone.”

“There is,” Gwen pulled a small roll of parchment out of the pouch hanging from her girdle. “A letter from my mother. It still has Sir Leontes’ seal on it, as it was sent from his house.”

Arthur quickly read through the short message, in which Gwen’s mother told Tauren about the birth of a daughter – _their_ daughter! – whom she had named Guinevere, for she had a colouring much lighter than hers or her son’s. The message was dated back in the year of Gwen’s birth, the parchment yellow and brittle, and the ink faded so much it was hard to read – but still readable, with some effort.

“It seems the genuine item all right,” said Arthur, rolling the piece of parchment carefully up again. “With this, and what Master Geoffrey has found out about Tauren, we can prove that you are nobly born. And with your mother being a daughter of the House Llyr, even though of common stock, you’d actually count as an acceptable bride – _if_ you’re willing to be my Queen, that is. Although I’d still wed you if you were nothing but the blacksmith’s daughter.”

“I know,” Gwen smiled. “Which is why I’m willing to consider it. I cannot give you an answer yet, though. Not before we know for certain what has become of Lancelot, since Merlin found it necessary to abandon him.”

“Lancelot can take care of himself,” Arthur waved dismissively. “He’s done so for years, before we even met him.”

“That may be so,” replied Gwen. “It was still not right from Merlin to leave him behind. Ask me again when he’s back.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Lancelot had ridden all morning as hard as he could while having to keep _two_ horses – one of them without a rider – under control, to catch up with Princess Elena’s party in time. He knew not what kind of danger he was supposed to save her from, but since she was a Princess and the daughter of a wealthy lord, he assumed that somebody was planning to abduct her. Either a scorned suitor, wanting to force her into marriage, or an adversary who wanted to lay hands on Lord Godwyn’s realm without having to go to war – or simply a bandit chief who was hoping to get a lot of gold for giving her back to her grieving father.

Whichever the case might be, the Druids clearly believed that she was in peril and needed rescuing. And while Lancelot did _not_ intend to court her afterwards, despite the vague hints given by the same Druids, he was a knight, devoted to the values that were supposed to direct a knightly life; including the rescuing of a damsel in distress. So he rode on, determined to do his duty.

Fortunately, he did not need to waste any time on tracking. The Princess and her party followed a well-travelled path that led from the Holy Well directly to the Castle of Gawant, with widely-known resting places at springs or wells along the way. Therefore, it only took him about an hour and a half to catch up with them, although they had left the Well a great deal earlier than him.

They must have travelled at a slow pace, as they were still at the first of the resting places; but again, what need could they possibly have to hurry? They were in the heart of Lord Godwyn’s realm, not very far from his castle, after all. Why would they count on an attack?

There they were also, the six lightly-armed men-at-arms and one young groom, forming a protective shield-wall around their Princess, surrounded by at least two dozen men, wearing mail shirts and helmets, armed to the teeth. Only their leader, clearly a knight of some importance, was bare-headed; and he was currently having an argument with the Princess.

Lancelot had never actually seen the Lady Elena; had barely caught a glimpse of her from afar upon his arrival at the Holy Well. She was younger than he had imagined, sweet-faced, with a great tangle of ash blonde hair and wearing a yellow gown of heavy brocade. Surprisingly enough, though, she did not seem particularly frightened, facing her would-be abductor, and Lancelot asked himself how _that_ could be. Did she count on help arriving soon – one of the men was carrying a horn and Lancelot remembered having heard its call a short time ago – or had the Druids told her to wait for rescue?

Whatever the truth might be, she was glaring at the knight with angry blue eyes, showing no sign of fear.

“I know you, Sir Bromel, and you know me,” she was saying in the very moment when Lancelot reached the clearing. “For years now have you been making pretensions to my hand, and I have told you uncounted times that I shall _not_ marry you, no matter how often you ask. Is this your last, desperate resort then, to tear me from the arms of my old father and drag me to your castle against my will?”

“You are unjust, Lady Elena,” said the knight, biting his lower lip in frustration. “While free of passion yourself, can you not allow excuse for the frenzy of a man wounded by your beauty?”

Lancelot rolled his eyes at this tone of affected gallantry; for true, while the Princess _was_ lovely in a simple and harmless way, she certainly did not possess the kind of beauty that would make men mad with desire… like the Lady Morgana, for example. He suspected other interests behind Sir Bromel’s honeyed words, and so did apparently Elena, too, for she shook her head in exasperation.

“Spare me the language of strolling minstrels, Sir Knight,” she said dryly, “for it doesn’t become the mouth of someone of your standing.”

“Proud damsel,” returned the knight indignantly, “I only tried to woo you in the courtly language as is due to someone of _your_ standing.”

Elena shrugged. “Courtesy of tongue, when it’s used to mask churlishness of deed, is but a knight’s girdle around the breast of the lowliest clown. I’m not surprised that the restrains appears to gall you; your actions are more those of an outlaw than those of a noble lord.”

“Very well,” replied the knight grimly. “Have it your way, Princess. For I’m telling you in the bold language which best justifies bold action, that you shall follow me to my castle and you shan’t leave it until you’ve become Bromel La Pleche’s wife.”

“Never,” answered Elena firmly, her eyes as cold as ice. “You seem to mistake me for one of those simpering princesses most royal courts are so full of. You should correct your mistake ere it’s too late.”

The knight snorted. “You’ve set your eyes higher than a landed lord whose name does not go unsung by minstrels and heralds? What do you hope for? Arthur Pendragon has made it unmistakably clear that he will never marry you.”

“I have no agenda concerning Arthur Pendragon – _or_ you,” stated Elena coolly, “and my hopes are my own and no concern of you.”

“On the contrary; they are my utmost concern,” returned Sir Bromel, moving in to seize her – only to be stopped by the young groom and his drawn sword.

“One step closer, Sir Knight, and I shall sever the hand you try to lay on the Princess without her consent,” he said warningly.

The knight’s face darkened with anger. “You dare to threaten _me_ , base peasant? I shall have your head for that, once we’re back in my castle.”

The young man did not seem frightened by that threat. “I’d like to see you try,” he replied with an airy confidence that somehow reminded Lancelot of Merlin. Perhaps he, too, was a sorcerer – one that had not yet realized that magic not always helped against overwhelming odds.

“We’ll see!” snarled Sir Bromel; then he turned to his men. “Seize him; kill the others. We don’t need any witnesses.”

Seeing that the knight was willing to have Elena’s entourage slaughtered – and not certain that one sorcerer could deal with two dozen heavily armed men sufficiently – Lancelot let go of Merlin’s horse and gave his own steed the spurs. He galloped right into the clearing, with a thunder of hooves and a flash of drawn sword, aiming straight at Sir Bromel.

“Hold your henchmen, Sir Knight!” he called out in a commanding voice as he had heard Arthur yelling at his adversaries sometimes. “Turn around and face me, sword against sword, unless you are too much of a coward to face an opponent of your own standing.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
At the winter quarters of the Druids Forridel, wearing the same plain clothes as her brethren, was watching the scene unfolding on the surface of her scrying fount. While the Holy Well itself only worked as an oracle on the sacred days – or rather the sacred _nights_ – of the year, this small fount, fed by a different spring, could be used to watch contemporary events at any time. _If_ one had the knowledge and the power to do so. As the Guardian of the Well, Forridel had both in spades.

 _“Eorðe, lyft, fyr, wæter, hiersumaþ me_ ,” she whispered over the water surface. “ _Diegol cnytte, gewitte me yst. Eorðe, lyft, fyr, wæter, hiersumaþ me_.”

The tiny, unmoving images suddenly came alive in the water, as if she had been watching them for true, only from a considerable distance. She leaned closer, careful not to touch the water.

“Good,” she murmured. “He caught up with them… just in time. Now fate can run its circle.”

“Is he greatly outnumbered?” asked Iseldir, sitting on a nearby bench that was cut into the living stone of the cave.

Forridel nodded. “He is. But he will prevail. He carries an ancient blessing with him; he shall not be defeated as long as his heart remains steadfast. And the Code of Chivalry will not allow Sir Bromel to accept the help of his men.”

“Not every knight leads his life according the Code,” pointed out Iseldir. “There are some who find it puts too tight restrains upon them.”

“True; fortunately, Lord Godwyn sent sturdy men-at-arms to guard his daughter,” replied Forridel; then she smiled. “Besides, there’s still that lad Gwilim; if that’s truly his name. Have you seen his ring? It is an ancient and powerful one; allows its bearer to focus its magic through it.”

“Such magic tools are rare,” said Iseldir thoughtfully. “Rare and dangerous, as they easily seduce their owners to use them for selfish purposes. I once heard about a black sorcerer who owned such a ring, but it is my understanding that none of his progeny used it again, out of fear what it might enable them to do.”

“But not the youth?” asked Forridel in concern. Iseldir shook his head.

“No; he clearly cannot understand why his father wouldn’t use the powers he was born with. He apparently thinks that magic is his birthright, and thus he’s entitled to use it.”

“He’s not wrong in that,” said Forridel softly. Iseldir nodded.

“No, he’s not. But he was ready to kill Uther Pendragon at the latest open contest of Camelot, using his magically enhanced skills. He’d have succeeded, if not for Emrys; and that would have been fatal.”

“Why?” asked Forridel, her gentle features hardening with the memories how she’d had to flee Camelot to save her life. “Would it truly be much of a loss for Albion if Uther Pendragon died before his time?”

“It would,” replied Iseldir, “for Prince Arthur is not ready to reign on his own yet. We all must hold hope that he will bring about a new age; an age where the likes of us are respected once again. Had he seen his father killed through the use of magic, though, it would have hardened his mind forever.”

“And how long are we supposed to wait still?” demanded Forridel. “More than twenty years have gone by; twenty years in which our kin has been pursued and killed!”

“I know,” Iseldir sighed,” and there are days when I find myself growing impatient, too. But we must not rush events. Camelot needs stability, and like it or not, it’s Uther whose strength can keep it stable. Fate has taken an unexpected twist due to the fact that Emrys was born a generation too late and thus cannot properly support the young Prince; not yet.”

“And you still haven’t found out how he could have been born so late?” asked Forridel.

“No,” admitted Iseldir. “I’ve consulted all oracles I could gain access to, I’ve read the oldest books, listened to the wisest Elders, but found no answer so far. According to the ancient prophecies, Emrys should have been old enough to become Arthur’s tutor; and then help him against the unholy alliance of Morgana and Mordred.”

“He still can do that,” said Forridel. “He’s been a good influence on the Prince, ever since he set foot in Camelot for the first time. _And_ he saved him countless times. I’d say that’s support enough.”

“He’s still young and inexperienced,” answered Iseldir. “His raw powers are awesome, but as-yet untrained. Our only hope is that he might learn in time how to use them, instead of hurling them around and exhausting himself in the process at the wrong moment.”

“He should hurry up with learning, then,” said Forridel worriedly. “Alwarr has been sighted in the late King Cenred’s realm, and where he is, Mordred will be, too; while Morgana and Prince Meleagant both seem to be in the Castle of Fyrien. That will be one frightening family reunion: Morgana and Mordred, united in evil, just as it has been foretold.”

“Perhaps,” replied Iseldir calmly. “We’ll see. As we’ve already seen, the prophecies aren’t infallible; they could even be wrong. And as the beginning was different, the outcome can be different, too.”

“What role is Prince Elena’s son going to play in this game, I wonder,” murmured Forridel.

“That I cannot answer just yet,” said Iseldir thoughtfully. “You are aware of the prophecies concerning a knight of infallibly pure heart by the name of Galahad, of course.”

Forridel nodded. It was an ancient prophecy about the new King of the Grail Castle, known to all Druids since the birth of the first kingdoms of Albion.

“Well,” continued Iseldir, “as we know now, the name of Sir Lancelot, the one given him by his true mother, was originally Galahad. The paths of fate have been seriously twisted by powers far beyond our understanding. How we shall ever unravel them, I cannot tell. All I know is that Emrys is the key; but for him to bring history back to its right path, we must see that as many events happen according the ancient prophecies as possible.”

“Including the birth of Princess Elena’s child?” asked Forridel with a frown.

Iseldir nodded. “That more than everything. Or we shall have to accept a different Grail Knight, and I know not how that could work out for the good of Albion.”

“But Sir Lancelot won’t bed Elena out of his own free will,” Forridel warned him. "He has been ensnared by Guinevere beyond salvation.”

“I know,” Iseldir sighed. “And yet it must happen. The Dame Brisenne will see to it.”

“But how?” Forridel shook her head doubtfully. “We cannot break a love spell; no power on earth can do it.”

“True enough,” Iseldir admitted. “But a shrewd woman can get around it; or use it for her own purpose. Dame Brisenne will know how. That is why she was sent to Lord Godwyn’s court: to see the prophecy come true, for Sir Lancelot and Princess Elena have been destined to find each other and have that child from the beginning. Dame Brisenne is one of the Nine; she can and will do things that we would not.”

“A trick?” asked Forridel in sudden understanding. “She is going to cheat Sir Lancelot into this union? Is that honest?”

“No,” said Iseldir tiredly, “but it necessary. And when the fate of Albion is at stake, sometimes we must go on bent paths to reach our goals. I don’t like it any more than you do; but Guinevere had no right to interfere with the paths of destiny; she was never meant to be with Sir Lancelot. She was always meant to be Queen.”

“Yet if she keeps binding Sir Lancelot to her, while accepting Prince Arthur at the same time, all that we have been working towards in these years might crumble into ashes,” said Forridel grimly.

Iseldir nodded. “I know. And that is why it must never happen.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
At the unexpected approach of the unknown knight, Sir Bromel la Pleche whirled around, his face dark red with rage.

“Do not interfere, Sir Knight,” he snarled. “This is not your business. This is between Prince Elena and myself; a long squabble that shall come to end, one way or another.”

“If you are about to force yourself upon the Princess, then as a Knight of Camelot, I consider it my _duty_ to interfere,” Lancelot replied coldly.

The other knight looked him up and down, clearly disdainful of his simple clothes.

“And who are you to dare interfering with my affairs?” he asked with a scowl. “Do beggars get knighted in Camelot in these days?”

“I am Sir Lancelot of the Lake, son of Lord Ban of Benwick and his second wife, the Lady Elaine,” answered Lancelot, reciting his full title and heritage to another knight for the first time ever. “And you, Sir Knight, are nothing but a footpad and a coward.”

Sir Bromel snorted. “Anyone can tell _that_ tale!”

“Are you questioning the truth of my words, sir?” asked Lancelot, with a warning edge in his voice. “Sir Ector of the Marshes was satisfied with the proof of my origins; in fact, he was the one who found it. I am an honoured knight of Camelot, and as such I adventure my person on behalf of this lady, Princess Elena of Gawant, in clear wager of combat, sword against sword, to prove upon your body that she is not yours to dispose of. Therefore I challenge you to a duel to the death, according to the laws of chivalry, lest you are too much of a coward to try your skills with the blade against one who is your equal.”

“And I accept you as my champion, Sir Lancelot,” said Elena, pulling off one of her embroidered gloves and flinging it before the hooves of Sir Bromel’s horse. “I choose to lay my fate into your hand; may it not waver on the hilt of your sword.”

“Give me the glove!” Sir Bromel ordered one of his men; when this hurriedly obeyed, he looked at the fine silk and the slender fingers with grim amusement. “A slight and frail gage it is for a purpose so deadly, my lady. Do you truly believe that a silk glove would weigh enough against the heavy steel gauntlet of a knight?”

“What I do believe,” replied Elena with dignity, “is the justification of the laws of chivalry, upon which every knight must act. Or are you afraid of testing the rightness of your claim upon my person by the time-honoured custom of trial by combat, in which no just case has ever been lost, since the time of the Fallen Kings?”

Sir Bromel’s face darkened in anger.

“No-one has ever accused Sir Bromel la Pleche of cowardice and lived to tell the tale,” he said. “So be it as you want, Princess. But I do not desire the death of this little upstart. Should he, by some unexpected miracle, succeed in beating me, you shall be free to go; all of you. However, if I beat him – and rest assured that I will, without breaking a sweat – you shall become mine and follow me to my castle willingly… as my wife.”

Elena paled at that, and the knight smiled darkly.

“Why are you so concerned, Princess?” he asked. “Have you not laid your fate into his hands? Or are you having second thoughts?”

“No,” replied Elena, hoping fervently that Sir Lancelot was as good as his reputation, which had reached Corbenic, too, long before he would have been made a knight of Camelot. “I accept your conditions.”

“Fear not, fair Princess,” said Lancelot quietly. “I shan’t let him take you by force. If my life or my death can protect you, you shall be protected.”

“You may not have been a knight for long,” answered Elena, “yet you are the embodiment of everything a knight supposed to be. Take this as a token of my gratitude and for good luck and be victorious!”

With that, she pulled off her other glove and pinned it to the rough surcoat that Lancelot wore over his mail shirt with a pin taken from her gown. Then she kissed Lancelot – not with the kiss of a lover but in the manner a queen would kiss one of her champions – and sent him to his fight with a blessing only a true daughter of Llyr had the power to bestow.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As the combat was supposed to be fought according to he laws of chivalry, they set up a proper ground for it and chosen the marshals to witness the fight. Princess Elena stood with her guards and Gwilim at the edge of the clearing, glaring across at the dark line of Sir Bromel’s men, who were just about an arrow-shot away. In-between, a more or less square place of level grass was staked for the combat. At the far corner stood two of Sir Bromel’s men with drawn swords. At the near corner were Gwilim and the ranking guard from Elena’s protectors.

One of Sir Bromel’s men led his master’s horse away, and thus Lancelot, too, dismounted and was now walking towards the combat ground. The two opponents entered the ground from opposite ends, both on foot, both in mail shirts. Sir Bromel also wore hauberk and helmet and had a shield. Lancelot was bare-headed and without a shield. ‘Twas a conscious choice from his side – he knew he had to even out the greater body mass of his opponent with speed, and a shield would only have slowed him down.

They advanced boldly, ‘til they were within reach of each other. Then both bowed and seemed to speak, but Elena could not hear what they were saying. It must have been something untoward from Sir Bromel’s side, though, as Lancelot’s face darkened in anger, and Elena started to fear for her champion. As the daughter of an experienced swordsman, she knew all too well how dangerous one’s own rage in such a combat could become. Fighting in anger could make one careless, and that was something Lancelot could not afford right now.

Then the knights drew their swords to salute each other; the blades seemed to shake and shimmer in the waning evening light like living things. In the next moment, there was a flash, and a clash could be heard, before the shouting of the onlookers would swallow it.

“Well done!” cried the Princess, as she saw Sir Bromel reel back almost two paces. “Quickly, Lancelot, follow him up!”

Whether hearing her or not, Lancelot was doing exactly that, and for a moment it looked as if he might earn an early victory. Sir Bromel, though, found his footing quickly enough, and now he aimed to make good use of his greater weight and ample experience. He was known as one who had won duels to the death before.

His men roared in glee, urging him on, and Elena grew white with anxiety. She could feel the blood leaving her face and dizziness overcome her by the thought that this fine young knight would find his death, just because he wanted to protect her.

Lancelot gritted his teeth, enduring the onslaught of Sir Bromel’s attacks, in order to find the right chance for an all-deciding blow. The two of them were circling around each other, testing each other’s defences. Then Lancelot made his move, lightning-fast, slipping his sword under the sword-arm of his opponent and prickling the man in the armpit, right where the arm-hole of the hauberk ended, penetrating the mail shirt below with the force of his stab.

“First blood!” yelled Gwilim in delight.

But before anyone could have truly appreciated Lancelot’s move, Sir Bromel whirled around and dealt him a great blow on the shoulder with his shield. Fortunately, he only get the left shoulder, not that of Lancelot’s sword-arm, but even so, the blow unbalanced the younger knight, so that he stumbled on the uneven forest ground and fell.

Sir Bromel was over him in a moment, ready to deal the final blow, and Elena covered her face with both hands, shaking with fear and in bitter tears, for she had already come to admire the young knight who had come to her rescue. She waited for the fatal blow to come – but it did not. Instead, Sir Bromel cursed loudly as his sword broke in thin air, seemingly without reason.

No-one saw Gwilim closing his fist around his ring and smiling in dark satisfaction.

“Sorcery!” cried Sir Bromel in outrage. “He has cursed my blade to break!”

“If your blade was cursed, it was cursed by the fates, for the honourless blow with the shield that you performed, Sir Knight,” said Elena coldly, having pulled herself together with some effort. “I suggest you both rest for a moment and let somebody look after your injuries. _Then_ you may continue.”

Sir Bromel reluctantly agreed, and Gwilim left his place at the corner to help Elena tending to Lancelot’s shoulder. Fortunately, it was not broken, just badly bruised; but even so, it was a serious disadvantage, which Sir Bromel would not fail to exploit.

“Use your speed,” Gwilim advised the knight. “He is much heavier than you; your only advantage is your footwork. Let his weight and his short wind come against him.”

Lancelot gave him a suspicious look. “Are you a swordsman yourself?”

“Not half as good as you are on a _bad_ day, I expect,” replied Gwilim, “but this Sir Bromel knows his work, too, I’m afraid. ‘Tis good for you that he also seems to be obstinate. He’ll try to use the one move he’s already succeeded with again. That makes him predictable.”

“I shall look out for his shield, then,” said Lancelot, and Gwilim nodded grimly.

“You do that, good sir. And keep him out of range ‘til the wind is knocked out of him. You are light and fast enough to do just that – it might save both you and my lady.”

“Let’s hope that I can hold out long enough,” Lancelot allowed him to help him back into his mail shirt, for he could see Sir Bromel coming back to the combat ground, with a new sword in hand; presumably his second-best blade.

The new bout started well enough for Elena’s champion. Still fighting without a shield – not that it would have done him any good, with his shield-arm practically useless – he based his whole tactic entirely on his footwork. He seemed to be playing with Sir Bromel, keeping out of range, shifting his ground, making his opponent work for nothing and getting him out of breath more and more.

“Coward!” bellowed Sir Bromel. “Cease hopping around like a scared rabbit and stand up to me like a man!”

And, collecting the last of his strength, he made a great leap forward, and brought his shield down, right at Lancelot’s unprotected head. Such was the force of his blow that Lancelot staggered, slipped sideways and went on one knee.

Sir Bromel’s men roared in victory. 

“Now, lord!” one of them shouted. “Finish him, and then you shall win your prize!”

Elena paled by those words and wrung her hands in despair. There seemed to be no hope left; Bromel would kill this brave young knight and force her to become his wife. Even though she was not bad with the blade herself, the laws of chivalry demanded from her to uphold her end of the bargain, no mater how much she despised the mere thought of it – of _him_.

Suddenly there was another roar, though, this time from her own men. For Lancelot rolled out of the way of Sir Bromel’s sword, nimbly rolling onto his feet with the same move, and turning his sword around with a twirling flash, he rammed the pommel of the sword-hilt under the older knight’s chin, right between the fastenings of his helmet and the steel collar of his mail shirt. He hit Sir Bromel’s Adam’s apple with full force, rendering the man unconscious.

“Treachery!” the men of Sir Bromel shouted. “He killed our lord! Seize him! Slay him!”

They were rushing at Lancelot as one man, and it seemed that there was no force that could have stopped them from massacring the young knight most dishonourably.

No ordinary force at least. For when they were but a step from the wounded knight, suddenly a great wall of fire went up between them and their intended victim, crackling and hissing in the sudden, stunned silence. And next to Lancelot, whose face was streaked with the blood trickling from his head wound, stood young Gwilim, with his hand stretched out before him, willing the flames to separate them from the would-be murderers.

“Your lord is not dead; he is merely knocked out cold,” he said coolly. “I advise you to pick him up and leave for home with him, before I would become _really_ angry. Sir Lancelot has fought most honourably; your lord, on the other hand, has _not_. The tale of his deeds will become known in all kingdoms of Albion; that much I promise. Go now and never show your faces in this realm. Lord Godwyn might not be as merciful towards those who would abduct his daughter as I am.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Sir Bromel’s men were properly frightened by such display of magic powers and obeyed without any further argument. They picked up their still unconscious lord, laid him into a makeshift litter fastened between two horses, and left in a great hurry. 

When they were out of sight, Gwilim allowed the wall of flames to collapse, breathing heavily. Even with the help of his ring, such a strong spell could drain the strength of a sorcerer; moreso of one who had not truly had the chance to practice them yet.

“Let me take a look at your head, Sir Knight,” he said to Lancelot. “I’m not a healer, but I’ve learned a bit of leech-craft on my journeys, and you have taken a heavy blow. Let’s hope your skull isn’t broken.”

Lancelot stoically endured the examination of his head, hissing in pain only when Gwilim pressed a little too hard to determine the nature of his wound.

“Nothing broken, I daresay,” Gwilim finally judged, “but you’ll have a sizeable lump here for quite some time; perchance also headaches. _And_ I’ll have to sew up that wound. After that, you’ll need to rest.”

“We shall take you to Gawant with us,” said Elena decisively. “There you can rest and heal ere you would return to Camelot.”

Lancelot thanked her politely, glad to spend the next few days in the peace and lavishness of Lord Godwyn’s home. His thoughts, however, were more occupied with the spectacular display of magic he had just witnessed. _That_ had not been something he would expect from anyone else but Merlin, and he wondered whether Merlin knew about this young man or not.

“You are a sorcerer,” he said to Gwilim, without accusation, just sating the obvious.

Gwilim shrugged. “Not a sorcerer,” he corrected, “a warlock, if you know the difference. I was born this way. You got a problem with it?”

Lancelot shook his head, which promptly made him nauseous – not truly surprising, having been hit on the head like he had been. He made a mental note _not_ to do that again for a while.

“Not me,” he said. “But King Uther might.

Gwilim shrugged again. “Who cares? This is not Uther’s realm. Magic is tolerated in Corbenic; though not encouraged openly.”

Lancelot gave Princess Elena a surprised look. “Is that true? But has Corbenic not been Camelot’s strongest ally ever since Uther Pendragon ascended to the throne?”

“It has,” replied Elena, “but that does not mean my father would blindly join Uther’s crusade against magic. He married the last known Princess of Llyr, after all, and the Princesses of Llyr were known for their powerful magic. Magic that I have _not_ inherited from my mother,” she added with a wry little smile.

“Do you regret it?” asked Lancelot. “Not having the same powers as your mother and, apparently, her mothers before?”

Elena shook her head. “No; I am content to be who I am: the Princess of Gawant. That would have been enough for me to marry Arthur Pendragon and reunite the two warring houses of Albion, as it had been planned since our childhood, had we not chosen otherwise.”

“Right; I remember Merlin telling me the tale of that,” said Lancelot. “I know why _Arthur_ chose not to marry you; he was already in love with Gwen. But why did _you_ choose to risk the wrath of both your fathers?”

Elena shrugged. “I would have gone through with the ceremony, for my father’s sake and for the good of Albion. I always knew that I could not follow my heart. As a Princess, my marriage would serve the people, not my own desires. But I was grateful when Arthur refused to marry me, right before the ceremony would begin. I liked him just fine, but I always had the feeling that he was not the one destined to father my child.”

“That,” said Lancelot, while Gwilim was working on his head with skilled hands, “is a strange way to describe your future husband.”

“Nonetheless, it is most fitting,” answered Elena solemnly. “The oracle of the Holy Well foretold me that I would be rescued in the woods by a knight; and that this knight would be the father of my son. A son who will play a crucial role in the future of Albion.”

Lancelot remembered his own discussion with the Druids and stopped himself from shaking his head in the last moment. Which, considering that Gwilim was sewing up his wound in the same moment, using his magic to numb the pain, would have been a very bad idea.

“Then the oracle was mistaken,” he said. “I cannot wed you, Princess, and I cannot father your son. I am but a penniless knight, the last spawn of a family fallen from grace long ago, and my heart is no longer mine to give away. I have lost it years ago to the Dame Guinevere, the once and future Queen of Camelot.”

“Morgana’s maid?” asked Elena with a frown. “What kind of spell has she put on both of you that you have both fallen for her so hard?”

“None,” replied Lancelot with a sad smile. “We just happen to love her. Both of us. Although,” he added thoughtfully, “I’m not so sure about Gwaine, either. I certainly saw him courting her – for jest or seriously, I cannot tell.”

“And you don’t find _that_ suspicious?” asked Elena. “Princes and knights falling for a serving wench, one after another?” seeing that Lancelot was about to give her an angry answer, she stopped him with a raised hand. “No; I’m not trying to belittle her out of jealousy or envy. I’m sure she has her own charm. But think about it: one of you falling head over heels for a simple serving girl I could believe. Such things happen to young lords when they get fed up with the falseness of courtly life. But two or three of you, falling for the _same_ serving girl? Just how likely is _that_ to happen?”

“But why would she do such a thing?” Lancelot was flabbergasted. “Why would she put a spell on me – or Gwaine – when she already has Arthur? And she does have him; that much is clear to anyone with eyes to see.”

“I know not about this Sir Gwaine,” said Elena, “but I believe _you_ are her safety. Should Arthur choose to obey his father’s wishes concerning his future queen – which _could_ still happen, he takes his duties very seriously – she would still have you. Besides, having valiant knights like yourself under her spell would give her considerable power.”

“No,” said Lancelot, after a moment of thinking and once again stopped himself from shaking his head in the last moment. “I cannot believe that she would be so cold and calculating. She is a simple girl with a good heart.”

“And you, Sir Knight, are blinded by love beyond reason,” replied Elena dryly. “But let us not argue about her now. Gwilim is done with dressing your wound, and we still have a long ride before us.”

Her men moved on to prepare for leaving the place at once. One of them brought Lancelot’s horse; another one, having found Merlin’s abandoned steed, led it in on the reins. Gwilim, not allowing anyone else to touch the Princess, helped her into the saddle – not that she would need it, excellent horsewoman as she was, but custom demanded it so. The ranking guard looked at Lancelot askance.

“Can you ride with us in the saddle, Sir Knight, or does your wound bother you too much? We can make you a litter between two horses…”

“No need for that,” Lancelot felt the bandage around his head carefully; it hurt, but not beyond what he could take. “Your leech does good work. As long as we do not race too wildly, I shall manage.”

“All right, then,” the man turned to Elena. “Princess, we must leave now, if we want to reach Gawant Castle before nightfall.”

“And we shall,” replied Elena,” but send one of the men ahead of us and ask my father for a bigger escort. With a wounded man among us, I dare not to press on too hard; and travelling in the dark, with only a handful men-at-arms, would not be safe.”

“We have a sorcerer with us,” reminded her the head guard, giving Gwilim doubtful looks. “Is that not enough protection?”

“It is,” said Elena, “but I don’t want everyone to know about that. When people think Gwilim to be a mere groom, he will be a secret weapon for us; and I _wish_ him to remain my secret weapon, for the time being. It’s bad enough that Sir Bromel’s men know about his powers now; but them we can call liars and cowards, if needs must be. If Uther learns that I have a sorcerer in my service, though, it would put his friendship with my father on trial. I do not wish that to happen.”

“By your orders, Princess,” replied the man with a respectful bow and hurried away to carry out said orders.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Eorðe, lyft, fyr, wæter, hiersumaþ me.”_ means “Earth, air, fire, water, obey me.  
>  _“Diegol cnytte, gewitte me ys.”_ means: Illuminate the darkness, let me see through the rough water.  
>  The spells are in Old English, quoted from the show (Nimue uses them). The translation is from the Merlin wikia.


	11. Entanglements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, in the early legends Lancelot was actually called Galahad. Only later went the name to his son.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 11 – ENTANGLEMENTS**

In the Castle of Fyrien, the small army of Prince Meleagant was also preparing to leave. Messengers had been sent to King Cenred’s supporters with sealed letters, to inform them that the rightful heir of their late King was about to stake claim upon the throne. Supplies had been repacked, the pack horses reloaded; everything was in readiness for departure. 

There was only one thing left to be done.

Morgana joined Meleagant and the little sorceress in the deepest vaults of the castle. Morgause’s unconscious body had been taken down there by Meleagant’s men and laid onto a slab of roughly-hewn stone. She was clad in black by the serving women of the Castle, who had followed her and Morgana, her hair combed out and arranged around her shoulders.

She seemed to sleep.

Morgana had conflicted feelings as she was looking down at her sister’s unresponsive body. On the one hand, she still loved Morgause, the only person of her family that had accepted her for what she was, fiercely. On the other hand, all that Meleagant had revealed her about Morgause _had_ awakened nagging doubts in her heart. She just was not ready to give in to those doubts yet.

She was not ready to give up on her sister yet. For almost two years, Morgause had been her strength, her support. She had given her purpose.

But the truth was, she did not _need_ Morgause any longer. Not the way she had needed her before. The sacrificing of her maidenhood in Meleagant’s bed had been as if a lid had been removed from a pot of boiling water. She could almost physically feel her powers grow and expand – just like the long-captured damp would, after the removal of the lid. She was stronger than ever before – but she also knew that her new powers could easily overwhelm her without proper training.

Thus she chose to arrange herself with Meleagant and his ugly little witch – for the time being. Until she had come into her full powers, learned to use them as she pleased and had become the Queen of Camelot on her own right. _Then_ she would return here, free her sister again and heal her; and then, Morgause’s powers and knowledge would serve _her_ purpose, just like she had served Morgause’s till now.

First, though, she had to watch and learn. Which was why she now stood there, in the vaults of the ruined castle, watching the little sorceress cast her spell.

This was the first time that she saw Cundrie unveiled; and it was a loathsome sight indeed. Wrapped in the fine, expensive clothes was the ugliest creature she had ever seen, and counting in the Troll that Uther had unwittingly married, _that_ was saying a lot. Cundrie’s head seemed way too large, compared with her stunted body; her black braid, so long that it touched the stone floor, was liberally streaked with grey and hard like the bristles of a pig. She had a nose like a dog, and two boar’s teeth stuck out of her wide mouth, yellow and ragged. With her yellow, slanted eyes and the curved, yellow nails on her claw-like hands, she looked more like a demon than a human being.

Meleagant clearly wasn’t disturbed by her frightening appearance; he’d had years to get used to it.

“Let us begin, Dame Cundrie,” he said, with just a hint of impatience in his rough voice. “Time is an issue here; the men are waiting for us, ready to leave this bleak place.”

The little sorceress nodded abruptly. Then she spread her claws over Morgause’s body and began to whisper in the harsh, ancient tongue of magic. _What_ she was saying was a bit scrambled because of her bizarre teeth, but Morgana thought she recognized most of the words. In fact, it seemed to her that she had already heard this particular spell; she just could not remember where and when.

“ _Dæg cyme be com us, dæg cyme, liðe ond deorc, dæg cyme se endaþ langne ond angsumne, hrawerigne dæg; swa gestillan... alæteaþ bodig ure, forgiefeaþ lif ure. Spiðran neaht cumaþ, spinnaþ seolcen webb ure. Spiðran neaht cumaþ, bindaþ hie in hira swefn. Spiðran nu neaht, spinnaþ! Bewunden in deadhrægl ure, gastlas worulde_.“

As Cundrie was repeating the spell, over and over, gossamer-fine layers of what looked like crystal seemed to grow around Morgause’s body, wrapping themselves around her like transparent cobwebs, layer upon layer, until she was completely encased in what appeared to be a slab of crystal. It was smooth and clear, one could see her through it in minute detail, like some fairy-tale princess in a glass coffin.

She seemed to be sleeping peacefully. But Morgana knew that she would stay like this for eternity: unharmed, unchanged, yet separated from all living things, forever. Unless someone broke the spell, which seemed rather unlikely. She could not think of anyone powerful enough to do that – save perhaps for Mordred, once he had grown in strength and maturity.

The question was, though: would she, Morgana, ever be able to persuade Mordred to help her freeing his mother? Or would he take the side of his father, once he got the chance to meet Meleagant? Being the son of a King did have its advantages, while being a sorcerer had only brought him great danger, so far.

“Let’s leave this place,” the voice of Meleagant interrupted her thoughts; he sounded irritatingly satisfied with the outcome of things. “We have a kingdom to claim, o Queen of mine.”

He took hold of Morgana’s arms, but she shook off his hand with an icy glare.

“I agreed to become your Queen as it seemed to be advantageous for both of us,” she said coldly, “but that does not make me your property. Do not make the same mistake Cenred made when dealing wit my sister: we are _not_ equals. Just because you were born in the right bed and I was not, you are in no way above me; if I were you, I would be careful not to end up beneath the heel of my boots.”

Meleagant, though, seemed unimpressed by her speech.

“That is why I like her,” he said, addressing the little sorceress. “She has such fire in her; even if it is a cold fire. Cold enough to burn one.”

“She is young and foolish, but in _one_ thing, she is right,” said Cundrie. “Unlike Morgause, she _is_ of royal blood. She is entitled to the respect one ought to toll her origins. Blood is blood, and so are rank and inheritance that come with it. You knew that, my Prince, or you would never have proposed to her.”

“Nonetheless, I shall not tolerate any threats from her,” replied Meleagant grimly. “She is nothing: a fugitive, cast out by her own family and her people. I am a Crown Prince of the House Llyr and shall soon be the King of my late brother’s realm. She _will_ show me the respect I am owed, due to my birth and my position.”

“You both will have to make compromises,” warned the little sorceress. “You are strong and wilful people, with powers to your own, each of you. You shall have to arrange yourselves and present a united front – or your case will quickly become a lost one. Do you understand me, my Prince?”

“Yes,” answered Meleagant reluctantly. “But can you make _her_ understand, too?”

“Worry not, young hawk of the seas,” replied Cundrie with a ghostly smile that would have made wizened sorcerers shiver with fear. “I have my methods.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When Princess Elena and her party reached the Castle of Gawant some two hours after nightfall, they found it in a great uproar. The messenger they had sent before them had already told Lord Godwyn everything: the ambush by Sir Bromel’s men in the woods and the rescuing of the Princess by Sir Lancelot. Only the involvement of Gwilim’s magic did he not mention, like he had been instructed by Elena. She did not want her father to come in conflict with Uther Pendragon.

The old lord was understandably upset and greatly worried by the news.

“The proper order of thing comes to shambles,” he complained. “Where are we coming to, without a High King to keep up the law? Lo, Sir Bromel’s forefathers have been loyal vassals of my House since the time of the Fallen Kings, and now he tries to take my daughter from me by force? How am I to reign in my realm like this? If only I had a son to take the sword from my weakened hand! Or Elena a husband, valiant enough to protect her and her property!”

He went on like this for a while, despairing about the future of his lands and his daughter, Elena listening to him with fond exasperation. Until he finally realized that he had an honoured guest at his hands – and a wounded one at that.

“Forgive the ramblings of a feeble old man, Sir Knight,” he said apologetically. “In my excitement, I’m forgetting all about the sacred duty of hospitality. My house is your house, as long as you choose to dwell under my roof. My chatelaine, the fair Dame Brisenne,” he gestured at a tall, dark-eyed woman, clad in heavy, midnight blue brocade, with the veil of a seeress covering her head, “will show you to your chambers, and Mistress Alys will see to your wound. She is the best healer who ever served in my court; she will heal you in no time.”

Lancelot thanked him and followed the two elderly women – one tall, imperious and forbidding, the other one small rotund and smiling, yet in some unfathomable way no less powerful – who led him to the guest wing of the castle, drew him a bath laced with healing oils and dressed him in a long robe of the finest wool, the likes of which knights of noble birth usually wore at home. It was trimmed with squirrel fur and lined with soft, thick cotton, and had a wide hood, under which, if he wished, he could have concealed his face like behind the visor of a helmet. He saw no reason to do so at the moment, though. Besides, Mistress Alys wanted to redress his wound, should it be necessary. Or, at the very least, take a look at it.

“He will be all right,” she explained to Lord Godwyn later, when Lancelot had been taken care of and was safely tucked away in one of the guest bedchambers. “All he needs is some rest and good care – and that we can provide. Young Gwilim has done good work.”

“It must lie in the family,” said Lord Godwyn benevolently. “You have taught your grandson well, Mistress Alys.”

“Oh, I never truly wanted to make a healer of him,” replied the old woman, looking uncomfortable for some reason. “He learned while watching me, I suppose; and it seems he paid close attention.”

“Fortunately for Sir Lancelot, I say,” said Lord Godwyn. “Who is watching over him right now?”

“Dame Brisenne has taken first watch,” answered Mistress Alys. “Gwilim will take over from her shortly, as she has other duties. We are hopeful, though. Sir Lancelot shall be on his feet in a day or two again. Riding and fighting… that will take a little longer.”

“That matters not,” said the old lord. “He has saved my daughter from the clutches of an unwanted suitor, and thus we are in his debt. Do you know aught about his origins? His family?”

“He calls himself Sir Lancelot of the Lake,” explained his daughter, “and is apparently the lost son of Lord Ban of Benwick.”

“ _What_?” cried Lord Godwyn in surprise. “That young man is actually Galahad? Is there any proof for that?”

Elena nodded. “Sir Ector of the Marshes was the one who found out who Sir Lancelot truly is. In any case, he is now a knight of Camelot, recently knighted, and as we have seen rightly so. Never have I seen a knight as skilled with the blade as him – save for Arthur himself.”

“He used to have quite the reputation, back then when he was nothing but a hired sword,” said Lord Godwyn thoughtfully; then he looked at his daughter with a forgiving smile. “You like him, my little Princess, don’t you?”

“There is more than that,” answered Elena. “The high priestess of the Holy Well foretold that I would be attacked in the woods; and that the knight that rescued me was destined to get a child upon me. A son by whom all the kingdoms of Albion should be brought out of danger.”

“You mean that Galahad – or rather Lancelot, as he is known in these days – is destined to become your husband and the father of your child?” clarified Lord Godwyn; Elena nodded. “Well, if he truly is whom he claims to be, I shall have no objections. The family of Lord Ban is from the House Don; thus, by wedding him, you would fulfil the prophecy spoken upon your birth and unite the two warring Houses. It would be a good match.”

“That might not be as easy as you believe, sire,” said Dame Brisenne, entering the lord’s hall again. “You must understand that Sir Lancelot loves no lady in the world but a certain Dame Guinevere, whom he calls Gwen; even now, he is calling for her in his sleep.”

Lord Godwyn sighed in clear disappointment. “I see. That is unfortunate. A noble knight with skills like his would be more than capable of protecting my daughter and my castle… all my lands.”

“This is not about my safety, Father; or the safety of your lands,” said Elena gently. “There is more at stake than just our lives, you see. The future of Albion depends on the son I am destined to conceive from him, whether he is willing to wed me or not.”

“You would sacrifice everything for a prophecy?” asked the old lord crestfallen. “Your maidenhood, your good name, your future? That is madness, my child! You have your whole life before you – do not waste it!”

“Father, when did my life ever truly belong to me?” returned Elena with a sad little smile. “From my birth on, I was the pawn of the Sidhe; and while I am finally free of them, I’m still the last Princess of Llyr. A symbol that does not belong to herself and never will.”

“So you would lie with him, even if he refused to wed you?” demanded her father. He respected the prophecies and did his best to fulfil them, but he preferred to do so within the boundaries of custom and etiquette.

Elena shrugged. “If that is what I have to do to bring forth the child of the prophecy, then yea, I am willing to do so,” she said steadily; then she added in sorrow. “It shan’t be such a great hardship, you know. I would choose him for himself alone if I could, for he is noble and valiant and pleasing to the eye.”

“Yet even because he is a knight of noble heart, he would not agree to besmirch your honour like that,” pointed out Lord Godwyn. “For which I am grateful. I would not have you bear a shame like that.”

“He would not lie with _me_ ,” agreed Elena. “Not unless he believed me to be someone else.”

“The Dame Guinevere?” Lord Godwyn shook his head dejectedly. “You would truly try deceiving him? How can you stoop so low?”

“She does not; I do,” said the Dame Brisenne calmly. “I shall make him to lie with your daughter, sire; and he shall not know but that he lies with his future Queen.”

“How do you hope to bring this about?” asked Lord Godwyn doubtfully.

“’Tis better if you know no details, sire,” the chatelaine answered. “Let me deal with this; and upon the pain of my life, I promise you that the Princess shall have the child of the prophecy under her heart ere Sir Lancelot leaves for home.”

“I do not like this,” declared Lord Godwyn. “Lies and deceit towards an honourable guest, whom we owe nought but gratitude; this is not the right thing to do.”

“You are right, sire, it is not,” admitted the Dame Brisenne. “In ye olde days, you would offer Sir Lancelot the hand of your daughter, and her inheritance, in marriage. And were he not enchanted by another, he would accept, and Corbenic would have a new lord who could take over from you when you grew tired of ruling. But he is enchanted; and we have no means to break the spell. Thus, if we want to fulfil the prophecy, we must cheat.”

“I still do not like it,” said Lord Godwyn grimly.

“Neither do I,” confessed Elena, willing back her tears. “It breaks my heart that he would think of that wench while I give him the greatest gift I have to give. But the prophecy must be fulfilled. My son _must_ be born, and Lancelot is destined to be his father. I shall be the one to pay the price for this deceit; yet for the good of Albion, I am willing to pay it.”

“I could bring this scheme of yours to fall,” said Lord Godwyn slowly. “I could tell Sir Lancelot everything in advance; warn him about your plans.”

“You could,” Elena agreed, “But you won’t, will you? Because _that_ would mean to rob me of my destiny; to make my entire life meaningless. This is my only chance to help prevent the fall of Albion into darkness… if you would only let me, Father.”

For a very long time, Lord Godwyn remained silent, his old heart breaking. He understood the importance of the child whose birth had been foretold before Elena would have been born. But he also knew what a high price his beloved daughter would pay to fulfil that prophecy, and as a father, he wanted to prevent it. Yet he knew that he could not. Elena was the last Princess of Llyr; she was born to fulfil the prophecy. That was the very purpose of her life. No matter the price, he could not take that from her.

“Do what you must, best beloved,” he finally said. “I only wish there were another way.”

“So do I,” answered Elena, and her tears began to fall now. “But we both know there is none. Thank you, Father, for allowing me to go my way.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Sir Kay de Blois found life in Camelot surprisingly agreeable; more so than he would have expected, truth be told. Even with half the town still more or less in ruins and famine still hanging above their heads like a sword on a frayed cord, Camelot was an amazing place to live. Particularly compared with his uncle’s rough fortress in the Marshes and with the much more rustic life he used to lead there.

As vassals of Camelot, the Lords of the Marshes were stout defenders of the eastern borders of the realm, and led the life of soldiers. Sure, they were landed lords of noble origins, but first and foremost they were warriors, concerned with war and the defence of the land. They had little time for pleasantries and limited means to entertain themselves or to follow personal interests. And while the heirs of the lords were carefully educated to stand for themselves in the royal court, they had rarely the chance to put that education to good use. The most they could hope for was hunting and the one or other wandering minstrel that found his way to their distant lands by accident.

Even in its current state, Camelot offered a lot more delight for a young nobleman, after his duty for the day was done.

Sir Kay found his duties as Prince Arthur’s seneschal fulfilling and exciting. He secretly enjoyed the respect and attention given him due to the mere fact that he was the cousin of the Crown Prince. But he also had _earned_ people’s respect, especially that of the knights of Camelot, whom he had repeatedly proven his skills with sword and lance. Sir Bedivere, the newly established constable of Camelot, and his brother Lucan, the wine-steward, turned out to be good-natured, easy-going men with whom he could work well. And some of the girls serving in the Citadel had a habitual weakness for sweet words and small gifts in exchange for sharing their favours with young knights.

In that matter Sir Kay found a kindred spirit in the notorious Sir Gwaine, who had the reputation of chasing after every barmaid’s apron; more so when he was drunk. It was a reputation well-earned; and despite his natural shyness, Sir Kay realized that he needed not to worry about the lack of female company, as long as he kept company with Gwaine.

Of course he had to do this very discreetly. His uncle, currently acting as the Vice-Regent of the realm, was an old-fashioned man, with a clear vision about how a young knight and nobleman ought to behave. Sir Kay loved and respected his uncle – his father in all but blood – greatly, yet he was young still. And now, living in a large, lively town, he wanted to… well, to _live_ a little, to be honest. To have a little fun, beyond duty and service.

Those were things he had always envied Arthur for. Uther Pendragon might have been a stern and heavy-handed father – Sir Kay knew for the fact that he _was_ – but if Arthur arranged himself sneakily enough, he could always find things in which to delight; in the Citadel itself, or if not, then in the lower town.

There were no such things in Sir Ector’s northern fortress to begin with.

Therefore, while he acted carefully enough not to catch the watchful eye of his uncle, Sir Kay saw no reason why he should deny himself the pleasures he could find in the dalliance with a more than willing chambermaid. More so if said chambermaid was as lovely as the delicate, dark-haired and dark-eyed Beatrice, with a sweet, heart-shaped face and skin softer than velvet.

Unlike Gwen, Beatrice came from the highest ranks of servants and was therefore not forced to do rough work. Not any rougher than making the beds and serving food to the guests. She was also lettered and liked to sing – not surprising from the sister of a minstrel. And while she was a hopeless romantic (again, the influence of her brother’s ridiculous lays), coming from a family that had served in the Citadel for generations, she also knew her place in the court… _and_ the difference between romantic ballads and the reality of life.

She would never make unreasonable demands, like expecting from Sir Kay to wed her. Or to create a higher position for her in the royal household. Such things were the privilege of Prince Arthur, as the servants liked to say while gathered in the warming room for a little gossip. As much as they loved their valiant Prince Regent, the rising of Gwen into a position normally reserved for nobly born women _had_ caused a minor unrest among the lower ranks.

“They have no reason to grumble,” said Arthur with a shrug when Sir Kay carefully pointed out the problem to him. “It turns out, Guinevere is actually the daughter of a landed lord from Mercia, who was even a distant cousin of King Bayard; she was just born out of wedlock. She had not known it herself; not ‘til two years ago, when she met her true father for the first time.”

“Why did you not go to your father, then, and told him the truth?” asked Sir Kay in surprise. “You could have prevented this whole talk and outrage easily… _and_ you could have protected her from Morgana’s actions better. Sir Leon told me what happened – she nearly got your girl burned at the stake! Why did you not act in time?”

They were having a late breakfast in Arthur’s private chambers, served by Merlin, Arthur’s oddly charming manservant. By Merlin, who behaved as if he were Arthur’s equal, and – rather untypical for the Arthur Sir Kay used to know – did not get whipped for his insolence. By Merlin, who was listening to their conservation with intense focus… and Arthur, strangely enough, didn’t seem to mind.

“It would have done me no good,” answered the Prince Regent to his cousin’s question. “Because, unfortunately, Guinevere’s father was no lesser person than Tauren.”

The name said nothing to Sir Kay. But it was apparently a known one for Merlin, because he nearly poured the wine all over Arthur in his surprise.

“Tauren?” he repeated, chalk white with shock. “The black sorcerer that made Gwen’s father, I mean Gwen’s foster father, help him turn lead into gold, and Tom got killed for it? The same Tauren who tried to make Morgana kill Uther at the grave of Lord Gorlois? _That_ Tauren?”

Arthur waited with practiced patience for Merlin’s rant to run its cycle. 

“Yes, Merlin, _that_ Tauren, or have we met another one? Now, put that jug down before all the wine lands _on_ me instead of _inside_ me. We do have a serious shortage of food and beverage, in case you hadn’t realized yet. Why my father chose to punish me with such a hare-brained, completely useless manservant is still beyond me.”

“Perhaps he, too, realized that you’ve become an insufferable prat and needed someone who wouldn’t go in awe of you,” returned Merlin, without missing a beat.

“If that was his intention, then he certainly succeeded,” said Arthur dryly. “Sit down, you idiot, and eat something. You’re but skin and bones; in fact, you’re getting thinner by the day, although how _that_ is possible I will never understand.”

“I’m not the only one, you know,” Merlin, suddenly very serious, sat down obediently and accepted the leftovers from Arthur’s stew and bread. “You cannot delay the quest for the Grail much longer. The land needs to be healed.”

“Well, it would have been helpful if you had come back from your journey with actual directions,” pointed out Arthur, but there was no real heat in his voice, as if he had known that it was not Merlin’s fault.

“I’ve tried my best,” replied Merlin simply, “yet for no avail. I have thought about it; and I think the very nature of the quest is that we _search_ for the Grail. If we knew in advance where it is, it wouldn’t be a quest, right?

He seemed immensely proud of his conclusions. Arthur rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“Merlin, I have the feeling that _thinking_ is something you should leave for the people who actually have the brains for it; like Gaius or Master Geoffrey. We need to have at least one place to start the search from, don’t you suppose? Or have you _thought_ about that, too?”

“Yes,” answered Merlin without hesitation. “I think we should begin or search in the Perilous Lands.”

Arthur gave him a look full of stunned disbelief. “Merlin, are you _insane_? We nearly died in the Fisher King’s castle the last time we set foot in the Perilous Lands! They are infested with monsters of all sorts and full of foul magic!”

“So?” asked Merlin with admirable calmness. With his ridiculous ears, frail stature and twinkling eyes he looked rather like a fairy himself.

“As you’ve rightly pointed out last time, the Perilous Lands are… well, _perilous_ ,” explained Arthur with forced patience.

“They are also vast, and no-one knows what they might hide,” reminded him Merlin. “Where else could the Grail Castle be hidden?”

“We would need an army to search the Perilous Lands thoroughly, even if we are looking for something as big as a castle,” said Arthur. “In case you’ve forgotten, we don’t _have_ an army. Not any longer, thank Morgana and her allies.”

“Even if you _had_ an army, it would be needed here, to protect the realm in your absence,” replied Merlin. “Prince Meleagant is on the march, remember? You shall not need an army in the Perilous Lands, though. Only a couple of knights who choose to join the quest freely. And me, of course,” he added with that adorable grin of his that could have melted ice.

Arthur valiantly pretended to be immune against it; not that he could have fooled anyone.

“Why would I need _you_ , of all people, on a quest like this?” he inquired, arching his best sarcastic eyebrow.

“Why, to protect you, of course,” answered Merlin promptly. “You know how you get in trouble the moment you leave Camelot without me.”

“Yea, because I never get in trouble _with_ you,” countered Arthur. “Let’s be honest, Merlin: you draw trouble like the fire draws moths. You _are_ trouble, walking on two legs.”

“Perhaps,” Merlin allowed with a nonchalant shrug. “You shall still need me, though.”

“And why, pray tell, would he need you?” asked Sir Kay. “No offence, Merlin, but you can barely handle an eating knife, let alone a sword.”

“That is because I don’t _need_ a sword,” said Merlin simply. “I got other means to protect myself – _and_ the royal prat here,” he glanced at Arthur, who seemed to be a little uncomfortable. “You can tell him if you want. You may be a prat, but I trust your judgement.”

Which, considering the currently troubled nature of their relationship, was the greatest compliment he could have made. Arthur appreciated it and considered the offer for quite some time; then he nodded, having reached a decision.

“He doesn’t need a sword,” he told Sir Kay with a wry grin. “He's got a _dragon_.”

“One about the size of a house cat, I presume?” Sir Kay could not decide whether his royal cousin had suddenly lost his mind or he was making a really stupid joke.

“No,” said Arthur seriously. “One about the size of a merchant ship, more or less. Merlin is a Dragonlord.”

Sir Kay snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur! Dragonlords do not exist. They are a myth, nought else.”

“They are a myth _now_ ; since Uther Pendragon slaughtered them, together with the dragons, twenty-some years ago,” corrected Merlin quietly. “I am the last one; and Kilgharrah, the Great Dragon, is the last of his kind, too.”

“By my name, you must be kidding!” Sir Kay shook his head in disbelief.

“I am not,” Merlin seemed utterly serious, but the seneschal still could not believe it.

“Prove it!” he demanded. “Call that dragon of yours!”

“One does not summon a dragon, unless in dire need; and Kilgharrah does not belong to me,” said Merlin calmly. “He only belongs to himself. But if you want proof, my lord, I shall give you proof.”

He stretched out one of his hands before him, with his palm turned upwards, as if offering something on a try.

“ _Bryne_!” he whispered, his eyes turning into liquid gold, and a small golden flame appeared in his outstretched hand, floating about an inch above his palm. He could hear Arthur’s sharp intake of breath but ignored it, focusing on the next spell. It was not a difficult one, but he wanted to do it properly, as it was one of his favourites. “ _Hoppaþ nu swicae swá lig flíehen_ ,” he whispered with a ghost of a smile on his gaunt face.

The flame swell on and then fell apart, into about a dozen tiny flames, that began to dance before him in a wide, vertical circle, like a swarm of fiery butterflies. Both Arthur and Sir Kay watched the spectacle in open-mouthed awe, as if under a spell themselves, for it was truly beautiful. After a while Merlin simply closed his fist and the flames vanished without a trace, leaving the two cousins stare at the place where they had been for some time yet.

Arthur was the first to recover and looked at his manservant with something akin to respect. “I did not know you could do that.”

Merlin shrugged. “Now you know. It is harmless, really. Just for fun.”

Sir Kay, understandably, needed a little longer to reclaim the ability of speech.

“You are a sorcerer,” he stated the obvious tonelessly.

“No,” Arthur corrected. “He is a Dragonlord. He was born this way, apparently.”

Merlin nodded. “My mother says I could move things with my mind before I would learn to speak… or to walk. I am a warlock, if you want to use a more familiar term.”

Sir Kay looked from Merlin to Arthur and then back to Merlin, still trying to digest what he had just been told. “Since when…”

“Since when has he been a Dragonlord or since when have I known?” Arthur clarified. “I’ve already told you that he was born this way. As for the second question, he only told me the truth – and I’m sure it is not the _whole_ truth – upon his return.”

“No, it is not,” admitted Merlin freely. Arthur nodded.

“You have already said that, and for the moment I’m honestly not interested in knowing more. Strictly seen, I’m committing treason by not throwing you into the dungeon to be burned at the stake later.”

“I appreciate the gesture,” said Merlin mildly.

“That is what your father would do, though,” commented Sir Kay. Arthur sighed.

“I know; but while I respect him and love him as a son ought to live his father and as a Prince ought to respect his King, I do not agree with him in many things. Magic being one of those things. I have seen what it can do in the wrong hands, yes, but I no longer believe that it would be inherently evil.”

“It is not,” said Merlin simply. “It is just a tool. It depends on the one wielding it what it is used for.”

“More importantly, the prohibition of magic puts us at a serious disadvantage,” Arthur continued. “Think about it, Kay: all other kingdoms use magic: for protection, or as a weapon. We are the only realm where it is forbidden; and that makes us vulnerable.”

“The recent events certainly have proved that,” allowed Sir Kay. “I very much doubt that you would be able to persuade your father to change his attitude, though.”

“I know I cannot,” replied Arthur with a weary sigh. “And I hate going behind his back and lying to him, but I have come to understand that his way is wrong, at least in this one thing. That does not make him a lesser King or a lesser man; but I do not intend to repeat the mistakes he had made.”

“And rightly so; we are all entitled to our own mistakes,” said Sir Kay with a flash of grin; then he turned back to Merlin with honest curiosity. “What else can you do?”

“Many things; none as pleasant as making flames dance,” answered Merlin seriously.

“Like making horse shapes out of smoke and letting them race the skies?” asked Arthur, fragmented memories clicking into place suddenly.

Merlin nodded. “Like that, yes. Or making the Witchfinder burp up toads. _That_ was particularly satisfying.”

“Not to mentioning hilarious,” Arthur laughed quietly. Then he became serious again. “He nearly got you at that time, didn’t he? Despite Gaius’ willingness to sacrifice himself.”

Merlin nodded, becoming deathly pale by the memory.

“ _And_ Morgana,” he added. “He knew what we were; I have no idea how. I suppose he was really good at sniffling out magic, wherever he went. Had he not been so over-eager to see us burn, had he not created false evidence, he might even have succeeded. Fortunately for us, he got greedy and impatient. Otherwise…” he trailed off, not willing to pursue that line of thought.

“But couldn’t you have freed yourselves, with the help of your powers?” asked Sir Kay. He knew the question was a bit naïve, but what did he really know about magic?

“I could probably have saved _myself_ , yes,” replied Merlin. “But that would have meant to leave Gaius behind to burn in my stead, and I would never have done _that_. Or Morgana; she had not turned to the dark arts yet back then, she did not even understand what was happening to her… the dreams, the visions… I would never have left her behind in the Witchfinder’s clutches.”

“Do you think my father would have sent her to the stake?” Arthur wondered. “ _We_ did not know she was his daughter, but _he_ did. And he loved her beyond reason. Would he have sent her to her death?”

“Perhaps not,” allowed Merlin. “Perhaps he would have found a way to save her; to steal her away from Camelot and into safety. I cannot tell. Your father has always been most unreasonable when it came to magic; and he tended to be harsh on his children, most of the time. You are the living proof for that.”

“He is still my father and my King, though,” said Arthur. “And his harsh methods have made me to the man I am today. I have no reasons to complain.”

“Not about _that_ anyway,” Merlin clarified. “You shall be a great king one day, and that is why you must give the quest for the Grail some serious thought.”

Arthur gave him a long-suffering glare. “You are never going to leave me alone about that, are you?”

Merlin shook his head, almost happily. “No,” he declared, clearly satisfied with himself.

Arthur made an exaggerated sigh. “You are truly a pest, Merlin. I don’t know why am I still keeping you around. As Prince Regent, I could have got a new manservant long ago. One that is familiar with the concept of respect he owes his master.”

“And you are a royal clotpole, with a head so swollen it’s no wonder your crown keeps giving you headaches,” retorted Merlin, “but you need me, and we both know that.”

“Perhaps,” admitted Arthur reluctantly. Then he glanced at Sir Kay. “Cousin, you do understand that Sir Ector must not learn about this, don’t you? Not yet. As long as my father is King, Merlin’s life is in danger.”

Sir Kay shrugged. “It is your decision, cousin; and your responsibility.”

“It is,” Arthur agreed. “So, Merlin; do you have anything else on your heart?”

“Nothing _else_ ,” replied Merlin with emphasis.

“I know, I know; the quest,” said Arthur, a little impatiently. “We shall discuss it with the Brotherhood, I promise. You do realize, of course, that if we set off now, we would have to search the Perilous Land in winter, do you?”

“So?” Merlin raised an eyebrow.

“The Perilous Lands,” repeated Arthur. “In _winter_ , Merlin. As in snow, frost, ice and generally nasty cold, not to mention hungry monsters all around us.”

“So what?” repeated Merlin. “You shall have _me_ to protect you.”

“Overconfidence cometh before the fall,” announced Sir Kay solemnly, while Arthur was still gawking a little with disbelief.

“That might be so,” replied Merlin airily, “but only if I cannot make good of my promise.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I give up.” At this moment the bell in the highest tower of the Citadel chimed, signalling the third hour of the day, and he rose. “Come with me, cousin. If I remember correctly, Sir Ector wanted to discuss the state of the granaries with us. That ought to be dull enough to allow me to regain my composure.”

“Clotpole,” commented Merlin fondly.

“Idiot,” returned Arthur in kind and off he went, accompanied by a highly amused Sir Kay.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Riding among the knights of Prince Meleagant’s entourage, Sir Gheriet was grimly satisfied. Now that Morgause had been safely sealed away and would have no chance to interfere for a very long time – hopefully never again! – things within the realm of the late King Cenred could finally return to the way they used to be.

To the way they were _supposed_ to be.

Sadly, that would not make King Cenred alive again – a fact that Sir Gheriet, devoted to his late King, deeply mourned – but at least they had Prince Meleagant now, with a rightful claim upon the throne. Which meant the realm would not drown in chaos between the remaining barons aspiring for kingship and fighting each other to establish their power. Nor would the orphaned kingdom fall prey to any of their land-hungry and power-hungry neighbours. Unworthy rulers like King Alined or King Odin. Or that old fool, King Olaf.

Most importantly, Camelot, also greatly weakened by Morgause’s private little war against Uther Pendragon, would not get the chance to make use of the realm’s temporary weakness and conquer it. Although Sir Gheriet supposed that young Arthur Pendragon, struggling with the burden of ruling his kingdom, would have enough problems of his own without starting a conquest. With his father reportedly out of his mind and his land in shambles – not to mention on the verge of famine – the newly enthroned Prince Regent would have both hands full.

Of course, King Cenred’s orphaned realm was not in any better shape. Morgause’s foul magic had savaged it as well; deeper even than Camelot, as it had been there that the undead army had been created. It was a good thing that Prince Meleagant had brought generous supplies from Caerleon, so that at least the people living at the royal seat on the Isle of Gorre would not be threatened by starvation.

King Cenred’s faithful barons had hopefully filled their granaries in time, too. And they would have men-at-arms to guard them. Not everyone had listened to Morgause’s call to arms; the majority of the undead army consisted of mercenaries and other rabble. Sir Gheriet shed no tears for them.

Now, with a rightful King taking the throne again, healing could begin. For the land, for the people – and for _him_ , personally. That loathsome little sorceress of Prince Meleagant had promised to break Morgause’s spell – the one that still forced him to serve Morgana, whether he wanted or not – as soon as they got settled on the Isle of Gorre. 

He would be his own man again, bound by nought else but his oath of fealty to his King. He would be able to see his beloved Sangive and their children again, and to take his rightful place in the new King’s court.

And then the world would be in its right order again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Dæg cyme be com us, dæg cyme, liðe ond deorc, dæg cyme se endaþ langne ond angsumne, hrawerigne dæg; swa gestillan... alæteaþ bodig ure, forgiefeaþ lif ure. Spiðran neaht cumaþ, spinnaþ seolcen webb ure. Spiðran neaht cumaþ, bindaþ hie in hira swefn. Spiðran nu neaht, spinnaþ! Bewunden in deadhrægl ure, gastlas worulde_. = Lovely night has come to us, lovely night, soft and dark; the lovely night that ends a long and hard, weary day; so rest... Lay your body down, forget your life. Spiders of the night come, spin your silky webs. Spiders of the night come, bind them in their sleep. Now, spiders of the night, spin! Wrapped in your shroud, dead to the world.
> 
> The spell is in Old English, quoted from the show (Mary Collins uses it when putting the whole court to sleep – I thought it would match the situation). The translation is from the Merlin wikia.


	12. Through the Mirror, Darkly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Castle of Case is a location in the Arthurian legends. I based its exterior view on the Castle of Thun in Switzerland. The transformation spell is the same one Morgana uses to turn Gwen into a deer in the 4th Season episode “Hunter’s Heart”. I just left out the deer part. *g*

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 12 – THROUGH THE MIRROR, DARKLY**

Lancelot found his recovery in the Castle of Gawant a pleasant affair, even if a fairly boring one. As Corbenic had not been affected by Morgause’s foul magic, their pantries and granaries were full, and food and drink was aplenty – a condition Lancelot could barely remember, having lived on frugal meals for a long time. Of course, they only gave him watered wine or weak ale, due to his head wound, but the cooks of Gawant understood their trade well, so he rather enjoyed his stay.

From time to time he asked himself how things might be going in Camelot. Lord Godwyn, who paid him daily visits, readily shared with him what little news he could gather. Messenger pigeons, with small leather pouches containing short messages bound to their feet, came from Camelot and back every other day, but they did not always reach their destination. There were predators out there: hawks and falcons and bussards on the hunt; and crows and ravens that could not find other prey. Even some hungry men who would shot them with arrows for the meat.

Yet a few of them came through, and thus Lancelot learned that Merlin had returned to Camelot safely and that things there were still not easy. Gwaine had sent him a personal message on a scrip of vellum, telling him that Arthur was seriously thinking of wedding Gwen, although no official announcement had been made so far, and that Lancelot should forget her; for his own good and for Arthur’s sake.

It was ironic that _that_ particular message had managed to get through. At least on parchment; for Lancelot knew he would never be able to follow Gwaine’s well-meant advice. He loved Gwen too much. And if he could not have her for himself, he would remain her champion nonetheless, to guard her and protect her, serving her till the end of his life.

So he had sworn her by his good name – the only thing he had owned back then – before they would have left the ruined castle of the Fallen Kings to retake Camelot. That she would choose to become Arthur’s Queen did not surprise him. Nor did it change his devotion to her in any way. He knew there had been a time when she might have loved him; yet apparently, she loved Arthur more – and why should she not? Arthur was more than worthy of her love.

And besides, it was destined that those two become the royal couple of Camelot. Morgana had seen it in a vision a year ago. Merlin had seen it in the Crystal Cave; and so had Lancelot himself. Who was he to fight destiny?

“Neither of us can,” said Lord Godwyn agreeable, and Lancelot realized with mild dismay that he had been talking himself, having completely forgotten about the presence of his host.

It was something he had done as long as he could remember. Not even his mother could break him out of the stupid habit.

Oh! he remembered suddenly that Niniane had _not_ been his mother. Noting that she had told him was true. He was the son of a lord who had lost his small demesne to an enemy; and that of a lady who had lost _him_ , too preoccupied with her husband’s grief to remember her infant son. All this at a time when he had been too young to even remember their faces.

Not even his name was truly _his_. His true name had supposedly been Galahad; but he knew he would never use it. Sir Ector and what other relatives he might have – Sir Leon and his brothers came to mind – would have to learn to accept the man he had become, instead of the babe they had lost. 

Or not. He was not truly bothered either way. He had Arthur as his King and Merlin as his friend, and that was enough. He had lived without a family most of his life.

Still, it was odd that the only thing from his childhood that had not been a lie was the bad habit of talking to himself.

“To tell you the truth,” said Lord Godwyn in gentle amusement, “you also have the habit to chatter in your sleep. The fair Dame Brisenne tells me that you have been calling out to your lady in sleep every night. She is a fortunate woman, having captured the heart of a knight as valiant and noble as you are.”

“More fortunate than that, in fact,” replied Lancelot dryly, “as she would likely marry my future King, and that soon.”

Lord Godwyn nodded. “I know; all neighbouring kingdoms are buzzing with gossip about Arthur Pendragon courting a serving wench and treating her as if she were a noble lady. Were my old friend Uther in his right mind, that girl would be burning at the stake as we speak.”

“He already tried that, or so Merlin tells me,” said Lancelot, “but to no avail. Guinevere is destined to become Arthur’s Queen. That vision has been shown to several people, at different times. I was one of those people myself.”

“Then you should forget her,” advised the old lord. “It would be best for you all: for you, for Prince Arthur _and_ the girl.”

“That’s what Gwaine says, too,” confessed Lancelot, “but I cannot. Besides, even a Queen needs a champion who protects her and her good name.”

“You can protect her and still have a life of your own,” said Lord Godwyn. “Have a castle, a wife, a family. Most knights have, even those who devoted themselves to the service of a particular lady; how else would the old bloodlines kept going on? You will need an heir, sooner or later, too. That is how it is usually done. That is what chivalry is about.”

But Lancelot shook his head determinedly. “That might be the common way; it is not mine. I can only serve _one_ mistress; and that is and will always be the Dame Guinevere.”

He could see the disappointment on the old lord’s kind face and felt guilty for having hurt his feelings. For he knew the time-honoured custom and guessed rightly that Lord Godwyn had intended to offer him the hand of his only daughter. Had his heart been free still, he could have become the Lord of Corbenic one day; a petty King in all but crown and title. And the lovely Princess Elena would have made a beautiful Queen.

Alas, it was not to come true.

“I cannot wed your daughter, my lord,” he said regretfully, “though I know her to be beautiful and valiant and wise. Were I free to give my heart at will, I could find no lady more worthy to have it; but it is too late for that.”

“I cannot expect you to go against your own heart,” answered the old lord in sorrow. “No-one has the strength to do so. I thank you for being honest to me, Sir Lancelot of the Lake.”

With that, he stood and left Lancelot’s chamber, going straight to the women’s wing, where Elena, Dame Brisenne and Mistress Alys were waiting for news.

“I have tried my best to do this the right way,” he said dejectedly, “and failed. Now it is all in your hands. If we are to fulfil the prophecy, we shall have to take the bent way, as much as it bothers me.”

“Just let me deal with this, sire,” answered the Dame Brisenne. “You need not to know what I am going to do. ‘Tis better so.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
“How are we going to do this then?” asked Elena, after her father had left. “How do we make Sir Lancelot believe that I am the girl he desires most? For that is the only way to make him lie with me.”

“I know that, child; do not fret so much,” said the Dame Brisenne soothingly. “There are ways – several, in fact. We just have to find the best-fitting one.”

“We must hurry up, though,” reminded her Elena. “He is on his feet already, and he will be able to ride a horse safely in a day or two.”

“That is the very thing I am counting on,” replied the chatelaine. “Well, that and that your lord father will allow us to use the Castle of Case for our scheme.”

“The Castle of Case?” repeated Elena in surprise. “But we hardly ever use that one. It only serves to host royal guests during their stay in Corbenic.”

“Which is why it will serve our scheme splendidly,” explained the Dame Brisenne. “Your champion will believe easily that the future Queen of Camelot would take her rest over there.”

“Let’s assume he will,” said Elena, still a little doubtfully, for she did not believe that Lancelot would be easily fooled. “How would that help us?”

“You, Princess, shall leave Gawant quietly and in secrecy and ride with twenty-five knights from your father’s court to the Castle of Case,” answered the chatelaine. “Mistress Alys and I shall go with you, to prepare everything. Then someone – preferably Gwilim, as he is the most likely to win his trust – will bring Sir Lancelot a token, as if it had come from Guinevere, asking him to meet her in that castle.”

“But how do you know what kind of jewellery a girl like her would wear?” asked Elena in concern.

The chatelaine shrugged. “I don’t. But I do know what kind of token would seem as if it belonged to a Prince of Camelot would be – or to the lady who had captured his heart. Such a token we can create, and that ought to be enough. Sir Lancelot would believe the girl had it from Prince Arthur himself.”

“That could work,” allowed Elena. “And if she asks for him he will come. But how do you intend to make him mistake me for that girl?”

“We could put a spell on him to cheats his eyes,” suggested the Dame Brisenne, but Mistress Alys shook her head determinedly.

“No, that won’t work. For such a strong spell, we ought to harness the power of a magical creature, and that is too dangerous. Only once did I try to dew the power of a Manticore, to assist me in my healing work – and it ended badly. I became a hapless puppet of the creature and nearly succeeded in murdering a King. I would never try something like that again.”

“What do you suggest instead, then?” asked the chatelaine.

“A transformation spell,” replied Mistress Alys without hesitation. “Not an easy one, true, but between you and me, we can manage. At it has a lasting effect.”

“Unless one gets a glimpse in a mirror,” said the Dame Brisenne dryly. “For _that_ will always show one’s true face.”

“Then we must see that all mirrors are removed from the chambers where the Princess will entertain the brave knight,” answered Mistress Alys with a shrug. “That is the easy part. What is more important, though, is that she conceives in that night; for if she does not, there is no spell strong enough to keep Sir Lancelot on her side. She will have this one chance only.”

“He won’t stay on my side, no matter what,” sighed Elena. “His heart belongs to the Dame Guinevere; we have no means to break a love spell that strong.”

“Perhaps; but his honour belongs to him alone, and he is said to be the noblest, bravest, most chivalrous knight of Camelot,” said the Dame Brisenne. “He might be angry with you in the morning, but when his anger has settled, he will know his duty towards his child… and _you_ , my lady.”

“He will hate me,” said Elena dejectedly, the thought obviously saddening her very much.

“At first, maybe; but he will understand that you could not act any differently,” answered the chatelaine. “’Tis your destiny to fulfil the prophecies, for the good of Albion. You are not doing this for your own pleasure.”

“I could, though,” confessed the Princess with a lovely blush. “It is such a shame that I must needs to steal from him under false pretence that which I would gladly give him by my own choice.”

“Then rejoice in what you _can_ have, Princess, for few can say that they are given their heart’s desire, no matter in which way it’s acquired and how short a time it may last,” said the Dame Brisenne, some long-surpassed pain reflecting in her eyes for a moment. “Now let us do what needs to be done to bring your promised child about. Prepare yourself for the journey, my lady. Mistress Alys and I shall do the rest.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
And so it came that Princess Elena left Gawant before the court of Lord Godwyn would have broken its fast. With her went twenty-five hand-picked knights, by the commandment of their lord, to see the Princess safely unto the Castle of Case. Mistress Alys accompanied them, and so did the Dame Brisenne who, according to Gwilim, had to make that castle ready to accept a royal visitor from Camelot.

“From _Camelot_?” echoed Lancelot in surprise, allowing the lad who had acted as his manservant ever since his arrival to Gawant to help him out of bed and into his bath. “Who would take upon themselves the burden of such a long journey to visit Corbenic at the onset of winter?”

“They must have a very good reason,” replied Gwilim with a shrug. “You know the court of Camelot better than I do, Sir Knight. Who, do you believe, may the royal visitor be? Perhaps Prince Arthur himself?”

Lancelot stretched out in the hot water thankfully and shook his head.

“I think not. Arthur would have ridden straight into Gawant and stayed here in the guest hall. He rarely stands on ceremony. And it cannot be the King himself, either. He is a broken man, a mere shadow of himself,” he gave the young sorcerer a shrewd look. “It must please you to see the greatest enemy of magic fallen from grace so much.”

“Had we met half a year ago, you’d have been right,” answered Gwilim thoughtfully. “In truth, I was hell-bent to kill Uther Pendragon with the help of my magic during the open tournament of Camelot. I thought, with him dead, everything would be all right for the likes of me again.”

“Yet you obviously did not kill him,” said Lancelot. “What changed your mind?”

“I had an… insightful conversation with Prince Arthur’s manservant, of all people,” replied Gwilim with a crooked smile. “He showed me the wrongness of my ways.”

Lancelot grinned. _That_ was something he could easily believe.

“Merlin can be very… _persuasive_ if he puts his mind to it,” he said. “And he does not condone violence, as much as he could tear down the walls of Camelot by sheer willpower.”

That earned him a sharp look from the young sorcerer.

“You know, then, who he truly is?” asked Gwilim. “ _What_ he is?”

Lancelot nodded. “I am one of the two or three people in Camelot who know, yes. But you need not to worry about me. Merlin is my friend; I would never do anything to harm him.”

“Not even if Prince Arthur ordered you?” Gwilim still seemed wary, and Lancelot had to remind himself that the lad did not know Arthur the way he did; and that as a sorcerer, Gwilim had no reason to trust a Pendragon… _any_ Pendragon.

“Arthur would never give such an order,” he said. “Merlin might be his servant; but he is also his friend.”

“Yet he is the son of Uther Pendragon, raised to hate and pursue magic and its users wherever he can,” pointed out Gwilim. “Or does he know about Merlin’s magic?”

“Not yet, as far as I know,” Lancelot admitted. “I know, though, that Merlin would like to tell him… to show him what he is and what he can do. Perhaps when Arthur becomes King, things will be different.”

“I hope you are right,” said Gwilim. “I would hate to see Merlin set his hopes on the wrong man. That could be a deadly mistake.”

“Merlin can take care of himself,” said Lancelot with a small smile. “And if Arthur would be the one visiting the Castle of Case, Merlin would have found a way to send me a message already,” he clambered out of the wooden bathtub and allowed Gwilim to rub him dry and help him into a long, hooded robe made of the finest wool – a generous gift from Lord Godwyn. “I’d really like to know who this mystery visitor is.”

Gwilim gave him a conspiratorial wink. “I shall see what I can find out for you, Sir Knight. A friend of Merlin’s is a friend of mine, too,”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
However, it took another two days ere the young sorcerer could bring any tidings from the Castle of Case, and Lancelot found it increasingly hard to remain patient. He had a secret inkling of who the “royal” visitor might be, as unlikely as it seemed at first.

If not Arthur himself, and most certainly not the ailing King, and since Sir Ector was not related to the Pendragons by blood, it could only mean the one person who _almost_ belonged to the royal family – thought not quite, not yet. But why would she leave Camelot at this time? At a time when the roads were far from safe, especially for a woman? At a time when Arthur would need her support most?

Was she having second thoughts about choosing Arthur? Was she realizing that becoming the Queen of Camelot was a heavier burden than she would be willing to bear? Did she need to reflect upon her choices and their possible consequences; was this the reason she would leave Camelot for a while, for the safety of an allied kingdom, where she would be taken in as their future Queen?

Could this mean that there was still hope for _him_ , after all? And if it was so, could he do this to Arthur? Could he take from the Prince the woman he loved? The woman he was ready to face the wrath of his father for, that of the entire court and every single noble in the realm, especially those with a daughter in marriageable age?

On the other hand, if Guinevere no longer _wanted_ to become Arthur’s Queen, was there a reason to condemn all three of them to unhappiness? The oath he had given to his future King; did it outweigh the vow he had given to his lady?

He would not be able to remain in Camelot if Guinevere was truly choosing him, after all. That would be a slap into Arthur’s face, and the last thing Lancelot wanted was to hurt his young liege lord more than it was inevitable. But there were always other choices. Sir Ector would surely allow them to stay in his fortress at the eastern borders, until he could win a castle of his own. That way Sir Kay could remain in Camelot and serve as Arthur’s right-hand-man…

The knight laughed quietly and shook his head, wincing slightly as the pain stabbed through his skull from the movement. He was being delusional! Here he was, sitting at the table of Sir Godwyn, decked out with all manner of meats and drinks the people of Camelot could only dream of, and instead of enjoying the excellent fare with gratitude, he was building dreams of mist. 

He didn’t even know whether the visitor of the Castle of Case was a man or a woman, young or old, friend or foe, and he was already indulging in forbidden dreams about his future Queen. Those feelings towards her were bordering on obsession. He should forget her and go on with his life.

He truly wished he could do just that. He wished the spell – if it was a spell indeed – could be broken as easily as the one King Alined’s court sorcerer had cast upon Arthur to provoke a war had been. But _that_ would require him to be kissed by his one true love – and _his_ one true love was Guinevere… was it not?

He wished Merlin were here. Whom else could he have asked about spell and hope to get an answer that would actually help?

He was still berating himself when the lad Gwilim arrived to see him back to his chambers. Not that it would still have been necessary. He had recovered well enough during the recent days, so that he could even have ridden a horse if he had to, as long as he did not overdo it. The remedies of Mistress Alys proved very potent indeed. Lancelot even suspected that the old crone was a better healer than Gaius himself – and that was saying a lot. But since Gwilim seemed to enjoy being his manservant, he saw no reason to protest. The young sorcerer was good company, and if fussing about a guest spared him stable duty, Lancelot felt that he could accommodate.

His friendship with Merlin had apparently made him very understanding towards the fate of castle servants. Not that _that_ would have been a bad thing.

“Any news from the Castle of Case?” he asked as it had become his wont, once they had reached his chambers. 

Gwilim nodded eagerly, unfastening a soft leather pouch from his belt and handing it to him. “Open it, Sir Knight,” he said. Lancelot shrugged and did as he was told.

There was a family sigil in the pouch, about the size of a large cloak pin, made of pure silver and shaped like a circle quartered by a cross. There was a wavy pattern running along the edge of the circle, as broad as the beams of the cross, which were inlaid with some amber metal, most likely red gold or copper. In the middle of the cross, obscuring half of it, was depicted a white bird, perhaps a seagull, looking to the right, its wing raised as if it were about to fly away. It was a rare heraldic beast, and Lancelot realized that he had seen this device it somewhere in Camelot – in the now empty chambers of the late Queen, depicted on the wall.

“I know this device,” he said. “This was the family sigil of Arthur’s mother.”

“So I am told,” Gwilim nodded. “And I was also ordered to tell you that the lady sending this to you is desirous to meet you tonight.”

Lancelot was stunned. Not only had he seen the device on the wall of Queen Ygraine’s antechamber, he had also seen the sigil in Arthur’s own hand before, and he knew how much it meant to the young Prince. There would be one person only whom Arthur would give his mother’s sigil: his future bride. So the ‘royal visitor’ _was_ Guinevere, after all? And she wanted to meet him, in a remote castle, alone? Had even made the long and perilous journey from Camelot to Corbenic, just to see him?

Apparently, he hadn’t been chasing mad dreams in the recent days, after all.

“Where is my lady now?” he asked.

“She is resting in the Castle of Case,” replied Gwilim, “for the long journey had left her fatigued, or so they say.”

“How far is it?” Lancelot was already taking off his fine, warm robe in favour of his mail shirt.

“Merely five miles hence,” Gwilim gave him an alarmed glance. “But Sir Knight, you cannot seriously consider riding over to the Castle of Case! You are still not fully recovered!”

“Nonsense,” said Lancelot.” “I have ridden harder roads, in a much worse condition. See that my horse is prepared. I can get ready on my own. Oh, and ask Lord Godwyn’s forgiveness in my name. Tell him, I shall return in the morning… most likely. If not, I shall continue on to Camelot.”

“In which case you will need your saddlebags packed and your weapons tended to,” pointed out Gwilim. “Allow me to accompany you, Sir Knight.”

“There is no need for that,” Lancelot began a little impatiently, but the lad cut him in the word.

“Not for you, perhaps, but Merlin shall have my hide, should anything happen to you on my watch. You called him a friend; then you ought to know how protective he is towards his friends.”

That was certainly true, and Lancelot found that he really did not want to become a pawn in a power play between two enraged sorcerers. Merlin might have despised violence on principle, but that did not mean that he was incapable of it, if someone he cared for was endangered. And he had already seen what Gwilim was capable of; a confrontation between those two could have become very ugly, in a very short time.

“Very well,” he said, resigning to his fate. “Have my bags packed, then, while I take my leave from Lord Godwyn. Somehow I have the feeling that your sudden concern for me has its roots in your unwillingness to tell him about my untimely departure.”

Gwilim just shrugged and went on to start packing his saddlebags. Lancelot sighed, steeling himself for a likely awkward conversation with his host.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
To his relief, it turned out that Lord Godwyn had left Gawant to mediate in a quarrel between two of his vassals in an outlaying manor. Thus Lancelot asked the steward of the castle to give the old lord his thanks, his apologies and his vague promise to visit Corbenic again, and rode off to the Castle of Case, in the sole company of Gwilim.

Or Gilli, which the true name of the lad apparently was.

“My father was a sorcerer,” he explained. “Or rather a warlock, born with his magic, and so am I.”

“You mean like Merlin?” asked Lancelot.

Gwilim, or Gilli, or whatever his name really was, nodded.

“Yes, Of course, he wasn’t nearly as powerful as Merlin; _nobody_ is like him and perhaps never will be. But my father had inborn powers, yes, which I inherited. And he also had _this_ ,” he held out his hand to show Lancelot his beautifully wrought ring.

“Is that a magic ring?” the knight asked, and the warlock lad nodded again.

“Nothing fancy, though,” he said. “All it can do is to help me channel my powers, to use them more efficiently. It does not make me _stronger_ than I already am, neither in body nor in powers.”

“Did you use it while fighting the King, though?” Lancelot started to understand things.

“Yeah,” Gilli sighed. “My father… he never used his powers. _Or_ the ring. Not because he was afraid to be caught and executed, although that was a very real danger in King Uther’s highday. He was afraid what having that much power would do to him. He was much stronger than I am, you see… _and_ properly trained.”

“Do you still use it?” asked Lancelot. “The ring, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” Gilli admitted. “I couldn’t have conjured up that firewall without the ring. But I’m trying to do without it, if I can. I’m learning to use my natural powers. The Dame Brisenne, Lord Godwyn’s chatelaine, is one of the greatest enchantresses in the Five Kingdoms; she has taught me a lot.”

“I can imagine,” muttered Lancelot darkly. 

As much as he had grown used to Merlin’s amazing powers during the years of their friendship, the Dame Brisenne made him most uncomfortable. Still, it would have been ungrateful to deny that she and Mistress Alys had healed him a great deal faster than anyone else, even Gaius, could have done. The fact that the five-mile ride to the Castle of Case did not overextend his strength was proof enough for their healing arts.

They were now riding along a river bank, and where the river joined a small lake, they finally reached the castle, about one hour before nightfall. It was a fairly small castle, built of white stone and surrounded by a low stone wall and a deep moat. The keep in the middle of it was some three storeys high in Lancelot’s estimate; rectangular, with a red-tiled roof, and adorned by four turrets; one on each corner, which were connected by a balcony, running around the entire building on the second level.

As they approached the castle gate, which was made of heavy, iron-bound oak beams, a drawbridge was lowered to allow them to pass. Crossing the bridge, the gate wings swung open, presumably operated by some cleverly disguised mechanism in the short gate tower, and they rode directly into the courtyard, which was paved with large, flat white stones. Grooms came forth to lead their horses to the stables, and Gwilim, or rather Gilli, went with them to see them properly housed, leaving the knight in the care of a young squire wearing a tabard with Lord Godwyn’s device embroidered on front and back.

The boy led Lancelot across the courtyard, straight to the keep. Passing the door, they entered the hall; it was a beautiful one, with a tiled floor and its ceiling resembling an upside-down boat, with its masterfully carved and gilded beams. In the middle of the hall a long trestle table stood, laid with a broad white cloth upon which the dishes were set, and next to them candles burning in their silver stands, and silver drinking cups, and also two jugs of wine, one red and one white.

Standing beside the table, at the end of a bench, was a basin of warm water, in which the visitor could watch his hands; next to it lay a richly embroidered towel, all white and clean, with which to dry his hands. The hall was by no means dark; for beside the slanted rays of the setting Sun that fell through the stained glass windows in a colourful pattern, all the large, twisted candles in the stands had been lighted already, so that the illumination was very bright.

Amidst all that brightness stood Princess Elena, wearing a bliaut of such dark green it almost looked black, over an undergown of soft gold and girdled with silver. Her heavy mass of tangled ash blond hair, too, was gleaming in the light of the candles like molten gold, and she was smiling at the knight gently.

“Welcome to the Castle of Case, Sir Lancelot,” she said. “Look, here is water and a towel; I fear we have but a small household here, so there is no-one to present or offer them to you but me, as all servants are busy with preparing the evening meal. Wash your hands, and then sit down, when you feel like doing so. The hour, you see, demands that you do so; for the meal will be served shortly.”

Lancelot gave her a suspicious look. She seemed far too comfortable with the whole situation, while she should have been disappointed; perhaps even angry.

“Where is my lady?” he demanded. “She sent for me, yet I cannot see her here.”

“She is resting still, as her journey was a hurried one,” replied Elena, her blue eyes darkening a shade with pain. “She asks you to forgive her that she won’t be joining us for the evening meal. But I shall have someone show you to her chambers afterwards.”

Lancelot reluctantly agreed, as he was impatient to finally meet Guinevere and learn why she would have made the long journey, after all. But as he had washed and dried his hands, he realized how very hungry he truly was, and gladly and readily took the seat opposite the one of Princess Elena; and thus they ate and drank, sitting at the opposite ends of the long table, under the watchful eye of the Dame Brisenne.

The evening meal was a delightful affair, especially for someone who had to live on such limited fare as Lancelot had, with the rest of Camelot, in the recent months. It consisted of chicken broth, a stuffed capon with _espinach_ , tender chick peas and parsley sauce, and a _potage of roysons_ , an apple-raisin pudding for dessert. Both kinds of wine served to the meal were mulled and warmed and mild enough not to get to Lancelot’s head, who had become unused to drinking during his recovery.

Finally, when they were both full and in high spirits from the spiced wine, Princess Elena rose from her seat.

“Sir Knight, if you do not object, stay here fore a moment longer, while I see to your lady’s comfort,” she said. “If she is ready for you, someone will come to lead you to her chambers. Feel no concern or embarrassment, for then you may go to her at once, if you please.”

“You are being very courteous to me,” replied Lancelot,” even though this must be uncomfortable for you.”

“That may be so,” she answered with a sad little smile. “Yet you saved me from a forced marriage, and for that I only have your best interest in mind. Wait here, an attendant shall come for you shortly.”

With that, she left, and Lancelot braced himself for the encounter and for what he might hear from Guinevere when he was finally allowed to go to her.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the ladies’ wing of the keep, in the royal bedchamber, all windows had been hidden behind heavy velvet curtains, and all lighting shafts had been stopped, so that no manner of light would come in from the outside. This had been done out of necessity, for the large crystal mirror over the small toiletry table was firmly built into the wall and thus could not be removed. The Dame Brisenne had covered it with a velvet drape as well, but it still remained a risk.

“Hurry up!” said Princess Elena to Mistress Alys, who was helping her to take off her finery. “He is burning with desire to see his lady and shan’t wait too long ere he would become suspicious about the delay.”

“We are almost done,” the Dame Brisenne took away her bliaut and draped a simpler, blue one over the high back of the only chair; one that a woman of Guinevere’s current position would wear. “Get into the bed, Princess, and let me cast the spell at once.”

Elena hurriedly obeyed, shivering with the cold as much as with fear and anticipation. For she was unspoiled still, not yet touched by any man, and this was not how she had imagined passing the threshold separating the maiden from the woman grown. But she could not back off now; too much depended on this single night, and it seemed unlikely that she would ever get another chance to have Sir Lancelot in her arms.

She slid under the coverlet, pulling it up to her chin. She was still wearing her undershift, and yet she felt terribly exposed and vulnerable. The Dame Brisenne smiled at her in understanding.

“Have faith, Princess,” she said. “Just a short time yet, and you shall have your heart’s desire. Mistress Alys, go and fetch Sir Lancelot; but do not be too quick. I still have to put my glamour on the Princess.”

The old crone nodded and scurried away. Dame Brisenne closed her eyes for a moment, to focus her powers, and murmured something under her breath. When she opened them again, her eyes glowed like molten gold in the fire of the whitesmith’s forge.

“ _Nu bebiede ic þe þæt þu lætest þine flæsc sclice gelic nysse_ ,”(1) she chanted in a deep, harsh voice, both arms outstretched in the direction of the magnificent, curtained four-post-bed in which Elena was lying.

Elena could almost physically feel the power of the old magic entering her body through every tiny pore of her skin. Her bones ached as they rearranged themselves; she became shorter and broader, her skin stretching and darkening. It was a little like when the Sidhe had been driven out of her – only the other way round. And it hurt like hell.

It took her a few moments to recover. When she came to, the eyes of the Dame Brisenne had returned to normal already, and the chatelaine looked down at her with great compassion.

“It is done, my lady,” she said. “You are on your own now. Remember, the glamour will only last ‘til daybreak; that is all the time you have to get the promised child out of your knight. And also remember to avoid the mirror at any costs, for it will show your true self.”

Elena nodded but could not answer, as the door of the royal bedchamber opened, and in came Sir Lancelot, still wearing his mail shirt and looking at her with such devotion that it broke her heart, knowing all too well that it was not aimed at her; not truly. And her heart began to falter, uncertain if she should go though with this scheme and take from him by trickery what was never meant to be hers, prophecy or no prophecy.

But even if she had the strength to change her mind, she did not get the chance to do so. For the Dame Brisenne stepped forth, offering the knight a cup full of wine mixed with a potent draught that would serve to strengthen his manliness and fertility, and said to him:

“Drink this, Sir Knight, and serve your lady well. For she is eager to taste your passion and would not be satisfied by any other man tonight.”

With that, the enchantress departed, leaving the two of them alone.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
To say that Lancelot was shocked to see his lady and future Queen waiting for him in bed, clad in her undershift only and ready to lie with him, would have been an understatement. His hand trembled so badly he could barely empty the cup, although he needed the wine to strengthen himself badly.

“My lady!” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“Is it not obvious?” she asked with a tremulous smile. “I sent for you to give you a gift – the greatest gift I have to give.”

“What about Arthur, though?” Lancelot demanded. “Last I heard the two of you were supposed to get married.”

“I never wanted to marry Arthur Pendragon and I never will,” she answered with such absolute honesty that he felt hard-pressed to doubt her words. Perhaps she was telling the truth, and it had been Arthur who pursued that path, without asking her if she truly wanted to become his Queen.

“And yet you are still considered his bride,” he said. “If we make love tonight, there will be scandal and outrage, and we may never be welcome in Camelot again; neither of us.”

“That is a risk I’m willing to take; a small price for the privilege of lying in your arms,” she replied, blushing prettily. “Don’t make me beg for this privilege, my friend.”

“The privilege is all mine,” replied Lancelot, throwing all concerns in the wind, for never before had he found her so lovely and winsome as in this very moment. It was as if he were looking at her with eyes that had only been half-opened before yet could see fully now.

And thus he divested himself of his tunic and mail shirt and the rest of his clothes and joined her in the bed; and he rejoiced in the sweetness of her love ‘til the candles burned to the ground – and then he fell asleep in her arms, happy and sated, feeling more at peace with himself than ever. And while his conscience warned him that what he had done was wrong, his heart felt differently.

When he woke up, he could feel in his bones that the night was almost over, though the heavy curtains were pulled together before the windows and no light fell into the chamber. Kissing the bare shoulder of his lady, he got out of the bed and walked to the windows bare-footed, to pull the curtains away and see what time it was.

A cold and grey dawn was breaking outside, making him shiver and realize that he was stark naked, as on the day of his birth. Looking around for something to cover himself, he spotted the heavy drape of dark blue velvet hiding the mirror on the wall. He snatched it, wrapped it around his shoulders and smiled as he saw the bed and the sleeping maiden reflected on the crystal surface, delighting in the sweet memories of the night now gone.

Then the smile froze on his face and he frowned. What was wrong with the mirror? It reflected the curtained bed perfectly, but the woman sleeping in it, uncovered to the waist, had a heavy sheaf of blonde hair and a skin so white and luminous as mother-of-pearl.

He whirled around to see her with his own eyes, but all he could see were Guinevere’s curly black tresses and rich, dark skin. The blacksmith’s daughter, small and brown like a nut, eager and willing and oh so passionate in his embrace… He looked back at the mirror. It still showed the pale, golden-haired maiden with her silky white skin and soft curves.

What kind of evil witchery was this? Which image was true: the one he could see with his own eyes or the one reflected in the mirror?

In that moment, the Sun finally peeked out from behind the eastern mountains, and a red-gold ray of its morning light fell into the chamber and at the bed. And by the break of the new day, the enchantment was broken, too; the illusion of Guinevere was gone, and Lancelot now could see the golden-haired Princess for who she truly was.

Understanding at least how he had been fooled, he slumped onto the high-backed chair at the bedside and wept.

The sound of his sobs must have reached her even in her dreams, for she stirred and opened her eyes sleepily. It took her only a moment to wake up fully, though, as she understood that she had been found out. She sat up in the bed, modestly covering herself with the blanket to her chin and waited for him to say something; to accuse her, to condemn her, perchance even to attack her for what she had done.

As he did nothing of the kind, she finally felt inclined to clarify things between them on her own volition.

“Forgive me the cruel trick that I have played on you, my lord,” she said. “This is not how I wanted us to come together. I would have preferred to do it the right way; I even sent my father to you, in the hope that you would listen. Alas, you did not.”

“So you chose to betray me,” he replied flatly. It was not a question, and she did not try to deny the truth of that statement.

“You left me no other choice,” she said. “I am destined to have a son by you, who, according to ancient prophecy, shall be the noblest knight of Albion and the savour of the Five Kingdoms one day. I only obeyed my destiny; and that I had to steal from you what I would have given you gladly and freely, I regret with all my heart. Perhaps one day you can find it in yours to forgive me. For in one thing I told you the truth: I never wanted to wed Arthur Pendragon, not even at the time when our fathers were trying their best to get us married; I would have, however, wedded _you_ , even if there were no prophecy to pre-destine my path. You are everything I ever wanted from a knight… from a man, and I shall never have anyone else.”

With that, she crawled forward on the bed, leaned over and kissed him, long and deep. And in the moment their lips met, it was as if shades had fallen from Lancelot’s eyes, and he saw for the first time how fair she was and how sad and how wise. He allowed the kiss; then he slid over onto the bed, took her in his arms and kissed her back, delighting in the softness and sweetness of her lips and in the way it felt having her in his embrace… like it had felt during the night which, he had to admit, had been truly remarkable.

When they finally broke the kiss, they were both smiling, albeit a little reluctantly – at least on Lancelot’s part.

“I am still angry with you,” he said. “I cannot easily forget how you cheated me out of that which I had desired for years.”

“I cannot blame you for that,” she replied with an ashamed little smile. “But I am still willing to wed you, if _you_ are. If for no other reason, then for the child I have in my womb by you.”

“How can you know already…” Lancelot trailed off, considering the possibilities, and his face darkened. “Was there witchcraft involved?”

She shook her head. “Nay; nothing beyond a simple draught to support your virility and my chances to conceive. But yea, I do know. I am a daughter of House Llyr; we know our bodies better than most women. So if I tell you that we are having a child, the promised child of the prophecy, you can trust me in that.”

“Then I forgive you,” said Lancelot. “But she who made this enchantment upon you and me, the Dame Brisenne, would do better to stay away from Camelot, or else she might lose her head for witchcraft. For there was never a knight deceived so as I was this night.”

“She did only what I asked her to do,” Elena pointed out, “so be not half-hearted in your forgiveness and do not try punishing the tool instead of the hand that had moved it.”

In that she was undoubtedly right, and with some reluctance Lancelot agreed to extend his forgiveness over the Dame Brisenne, promising that he would not seek to destroy her or to harm her in any way – although, considering her powers, he seriously doubted that he could, even if he wanted to.

“I must take my leave from you, Princess,” he then said. “I need to be away from all those that I know and seek healing for my heart. Do me the favour and send a message to Camelot if you can; tell Arthur that I won’t be returning for some time.”

Elena promised to do so, and he put on his clothes again, intending to leave the Castle of Case – and indeed, Corbenic entirely – as quickly as possible. She did not try to hold him back with tears and other womanly trickery, knowing that he needed time to come to terms with all that had happened. There was only one thing she asked him ere they parted ways with each other.

“I beseech you, my lord, see me as soon as you may,” she said. “For while I obeyed unto the prophecy I had been burdened with from my birth on, I have given you the greatest riches that ever I had and that I shall never have again. You have broken the seal of my body and sowed your seed in my garden; and for that, my noble knight, you owe me your good will, regardless of the manner in which it mattered. And our son will need his father to acknowledge him on his naming feast.”

“I shall try to return in good time,” promised Lancelot after some consideration; for her request was a reasonable one, and while she might have tricked him into fathering her child, he had to admit that she had only done what everyone had expected from her all her life. “Should I not be able to witness the birthing, however, as neither of us can see our own future, I want the child to be named Galahad.”

She inclined her head, looking queenly and dignified, even wrapped in the crumpled bedcover. “It shall be as you wish, my lord. You are the father; the right to name your son is yours.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
With that, Lancelot took his leave from her gently and went down to the courtyard to find Gilli and learn where his horses and his saddlebags had gone.

“You will have to get back to Gawant on your own,” he said to the yooung warlock, “for the steed you rode here belongs to the royal stables of Camelot, and I must send it back there, eventually.”

“It matters not,” replied Gilli. “I can always ride pillion behind one of the squires. But where are you going from here, Sir Knight?”

“Back to Camelot, in the end, I deem,” Lancelot shrugged. “But not right away. I think I shall take the longer route, around the Sea of Meredor.”

“I should reconsider that choice if I were you,” Gilli warned him. “The Old King’s Road comes dangerously close to the castle of Dolorous Guard, and a knight errant like you can get in all kinds of trouble over there.”

Lancelot shrugged again. “I have been in trouble all my life; and perhaps an adventure is the very thing I need to clear my head right now.”

“You shall lose your head if you go that way,” said Gilli seriously. “An evil custom has been established there, and none of the knights who chose that path have ever returned.”

“What kind of evil custom?” asked Lancelot, feeling reckless and wanting to go there now more than before.

Gilli shook his head. “I shan’t tell you about it, Sir Knight. It would only lead you to your doom.”

“You don’t understand it, do you?” returned Lancelot. “I will go there, whether you tell me what you known or not. So telling me would actually be helpful.”

“No, it would not,” replied Gilli. “If I cannot change your mind, though, I might as well be telling you – under one condition.”

“And that would be?” Lancelot could guess already but wanted to be certain.

“That you’ll take me with you,” said Gilli as he had expected. “I shan’t be allowed to help you fight the knights of Dolorous Guard, but I can protect you from other evils, against which your sword would be of no use.”

“And you’d leave your elderly granddam back alone?” asked Lancelot disapprovingly.

Gilli grinned. “She’s not really my granddam, you know. We just travelled together, to protect each other the best way we could. She will be safe enough in Lord Godwyn’s court without me.”

Lancelot hesitated for a moment, but then he realized that having a sorcerer as skilled and adventurous as Gilli with him would have his advantages. Besides, they could still part ways when it turned out that they did not get along well.

“All right,” he said, “let us give it a try. But then you will tell me everything about the evil customs of Dolorous Guard.”

“I will,” promised Gilli. “As soon as we left this castle behind us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) General meaning: Now I command you to leave behind your carnal body similar to sorrow. Translation comes from the Merlin Wiki.


	13. Sir Lancelot at the Dolorous Guard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot’s adventure at Dolorous Guard is taken from the Arthurian legends. Gilli’s background and his connection to the place is entirely my doing, though.
> 
> The Tarask is taken from the medieval French legendary, with slight modifications. Obviously. The castle of Dolorous Guard is modelled after the medieval Castle of Tarascon… well, more or less.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 13 – SIR LANCELOT AT THE DOLOROUS GUARD**

Lancelot and Gilli left the Castle of Case at about the same time as a messenger, sent by Princess Elena, rode off on the shortest way to Camelot. The knight was relieved and grateful that the Princess would follow his request so swiftly, and that she would send a messenger instead of just a pigeon. He did not want Arthur and his friends to worry about him, but he did not feel like facing them just yet. 

He found that it would be a little hard to explain how he had come to father Princess Elena’s child – to anyone, but especially to Arthur and Guinevere. Arthur might have chosen _not_ to marry the Princess, but he had come to respect her greatly. And Guinevere, Lancelot guessed, would simply be furious with him.

“ _She_ would be furious?” said Gilli with a faint smile. “I thought you would fear the anger of your liege lord more. You don’t have his leave to stay away from Camelot longer than necessary, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” admitted the knight. “But I have the feeling that he would be relieved if I dealt with a hostile lord sitting in a formidable castle right between his realm and Lord Godwyn’s. Relieved enough to forgive me, I hope.”

“But you haven’t dealt with Dolorous Guard and its lord yet,” warned him Gilli. “Believe me, if you fail to defeat him, the displeasure of your Prince will be the least of your concerns.”

“I must see that I don’t fail then,” said Lancelot, smiling. “Tell me more about that place and its evil customs.”

“Well,” began the young sorcerer thoughtfully, “the lord of Dolorous Guard is Sir Brandin of the Isles, who has been questioning Lord Godwyn’s overlordship ever since he inherited that mighty fortress from a childless uncle some fifteen years ago. To be a thorn in the old lord’s side, he made it his custom to challenge any knight who approaches the castle walls.”

Lancelot furrowed his brow. “Brandin? The name doesn’t sound familiar.”

“He’s also known as the Copper Knight,” Gilli added helpfully. “Perhaps you heard of him by that name.”

“Oh, yes,” Lancelot nodded. “He does have a fearsome reputation. But even he’s just one man, made of flesh and blood. No-one is invictible, not even the Copper Knight.”

“Perhaps not,” Gilli allowed, “though he is said to be a deadly opponent. Yet in order to gain entry to the central keep, a knight-errant must defeat ten knights from the first wall and another ten at the second wall, before he can face the Copper Knight in single combat. And Sir Brandin’s knights are known to be among the best in Albion.”

“That doesn’t sound like a fair custom,” said Lancelot.

“It’s not,” Gilli agreed. “Even the people of the castle loathe this custom, which they consider to be a curse. It’s their hope that the knight who conquers Dolorous Guard would be able to lift the curse and put an end to the unfair custom. Unfortunately, it seems impossible for a single knight to conquer the castle. Many have tried, and they were either killed or captured in combat.”

Lancelot gave him a suspicious look. “How comes that you’d know so much of this place and its evil customs?”

“I was born there,” answered the lad simply. “My grandsire was the court sorcerer of Sir Brandin’s late uncle. The old lord forced him to create a place of dark sorcery under the cemetery of the keep; and had him slain in his sleep after it was done. My father fled Dolorous Guard with me then – my mother had died in childbirth – but left me the ring of my grandsire to aid me, should I ever have to face his creation.”

“Have you ever tried it?” asked Lancelot. Gilli shook his head.

“I never came within eyesight of Dolorous Guard since I was but a small boy. The name of the place alone was enough to fill my heart with dread.”

“Why are you coming with me now, then?” frowned the knight.

“Because I believe that if anyone could lift the course, it would be you,” said the young sorcerer grimly. “But even if you managed to defeat Brandin and his knights in combat, you’d still need my help to lift the curse itself. Only a sorcerer of Klinsor’s line can do that.”

“Klinsor?” Lancelot repeated the foreign-sounding name. “Was he your grandsire?”

“No; the founder of our line, five generations ago, or so the family legend says,” replied Gilli. “We might have been peasants, all of us, but we were all born with magic, too. And as I am the last of my line, it falls to me to right the wrongs my forefathers have wrought.”

“That’s a heavy burden for someone so young,” said Lancelot. Gilli shrugged.

“It is what it is. Neither of us can escape his destiny.”

“Sounds familiar,” Lancelot grinned, for truly, that statement could have come straight from Merlin. “So, how long will it take us to reach your destiny?”

Gilli calculated the distance in his head for a moment.

“If we keep up the speed with which we are riding now, we can be there by late afternoon,” he finally said.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The feast of Samhain had brought little in the way of easing people’s hearts in Camelot. Food was still being rationed, more so than before, and the guard on the granaries had been doubled. Sir Ector feared that with food shortages getting gradually worse, people might try raiding the storages where the seed for the next sowing was kept, causing the future harvest to fail in their despair. With so many refugees coming to Camelot from the destroyed villages, food riots were a very real threat.

The only sign of hope was the slow recovery of the three young knights in Gaius’ impromptu infirmary. They had been gaining strength nicely under Hunith’s motherly care; so much that after the festivities Sir Erec could finally be released into the care of his family. Sir Geraint and his lady wife took him home with great joy, and his betrothed, sweet-faced Lady Enide of Laluth, was beside herself with gladness, as she had almost given up hope that he would ever recover.

Her father, the Count of Laluth, came up from his lands that lay near Gedref, to see the miracle with his own eyes. Nominally, this wealthy lord was a subject of the King of Nemeth, whose realm had been spared the effect of Morgause’s foul sorcery, and while it had been the subject of a very long dispute between Camelot and Nemeth to which one Laluth actually belongs, currently it was under Nemeth’s jurisdiction.

Not being touched by necromancy, Nemeth and all its fiefdoms had had a rich harvest in the previous year. Count Waldemar therefore brought an entire caravan of wagons full of foodstuffs, mostly grain, root vegetables, dried and smoked meats and even some live cattle and fowl with him. Sir Ector ordered most of it to be distributed among the hungry people in the lower town, under strict surveillance by the Knights of Camelot. It was not much, merely a drop of water on a hot stone, but it was more than most people had seen for a long time, and tempers began to calm down a little.

“You might have saved us from an immediate riot,” said Sir Ector to Count Waldemar gratefully. “It has been increasingly difficult to keep what little we still have safe. I cannot blame the people, though. They have come to Camelot to find food and work, but there is preciously little that we can offer them. The two recent years were not good ones for the realm.”

“What people need is something to distract their minds from their needs,” replied the Count thoughtfully. “Something to look forward to; something exciting.”

“Do you have a particular suggestion to make, my lord?” asked Sir Ector.

The Count nodded. “I have indeed. My daughter has been betrothed to Sir Erec for over two years by now; ‘tis time that they get married. I have in my mind to hold the wedding feast here, in Camelot. I already ordered two hundred head of cattle to be driven here from Laluth, to be roast on the spit in various places of the town.”

“That would truly be a great delight for the people,” Sir Ector agreed. “Getting the cattle here might prove a difficult task, though. There are footpads along the roads; robbers, or just desperate people on the verge of starving. A herd like that could easily be attacked and taken ere it would reach Camelot. Even otherwise decent men might find such a temptation too strong to resist.”

“Not if you hire watchmen among the refugees to protect the herd,” suggested the Count. “With the promise that their families would sit at the lower tables on the wedding feast if they bring in the herd safely, you can easily win their loyalty. They would do their best to make sure the herd arrives unharmed.”

The Vice-Regent shook his head in tolerant amusement. “You are a shrewd man, Count Waldemar.”

“Just an experienced one, my lord,” answered the Count seriously. “I had the questionable advantage to learn how to deal with famine the last time some young fool slew a unicorn.”

“Arthur could not know…” Sir Ector started to protest, but the Count interrupted him.

“I did not mean Prince Arthur, my lord. There are other unicorns in the forests of Gedref – and more than enough fools willing to slay them for the trophy of their horn; not that it would do them any good. Last time the repercussions were particularly grave. People starved in the small villages by the hundreds, and we lost the entire harvest, by the time King Trevisent found the culprit and had him summarily executed on the very spot where the unicorn had been slain. Since then, unicorns are protected by the law in Nemeth. Princess Mithian put a unicorn’s head onto her personal device to show how seriously we mean it.”

“Princess Mithian… was she not one of the candidates considered by Uther as a possible Queen for our Prince?” asked Sir Ector. The Count nodded.

“And she would have made an excellent Queen, seeing that she had been raised and educated to take over the throne of Nemeth one day, for the lack of a male heir. Prince Arthur could have united the two realms peacefully, had he not lost his heart – and his mind – to a simple servant.”

“Unfortunately, the only one with the authority to decide on Arthur’s marriage is Uther, and he is not in his right mind to make such weighty decisions right now,” Sir Ector sighed. “Let us deal with the wedding of _your_ daughter first; it will certainly cause fewer headaches to either of us. Do you want me to preside on the ceremony or would you prefer the Prince himself?”

“I believe that Master Geoffrey would do nicely,” replied Count Waldemar. “If he has been found worthy to crown a King – or a Queen – he will be more than worthy to celebrate this wedding. That’s what the Master of Ceremonies is for, after all.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
And so it was cried out on the squares and marketplaces of Camelot that Sir Erec of Ester-Gales, youngest son of Lord Logres, and Lady Enide, daughter of Court Waldemar of Laluth, would finally be wedded on the day of Midwinter, and that a great feast would be hold to make that joyous event even memorable for anyone within the walls of Camelot 

Shepherds who had lost their herds in the war and sought refuge in the lower town were hired by the dozens to drive the cattle, meant to be roast on spit over open fires all over Camelot, safely across the country. Even more wagons with basic foodstuff were ordered to be sent from Laluth, and more men, mostly farmers from the destroyed villages, were sent – armed to the teeth – to intercept them and protect them from footpads.

Camelot was filled with joyous anticipation. Soon there was no other topic discussed, from the Citadel to the lowliest hut in the lower town.

In the townhouse of Sir Geraint, where Enide and her father were housed in the guest hall (for the moment anyway), the preparations were running at high speed. Lady Cunneware and her handmaidens had taken Enide’s half-finished wedding gown – a dream of heavy, figured white and pale golden silk, embroidered with white pearls and gold-thread knotwork along the hem, the V-shaped cut and the wide, trailing sleeves of the bliaut, interspersed with white pearls and small, yellow topazes. At least half a dozen women were busily stitching away on the various parts of it to have it ready for the great day. 

The matching rings had long been ordered – and delivered – by the royal whitesmith, but there still were small adjustments to make, due to the fact that Sir Erec had lost so much weight due to his long illness, and the same was true for the jewelled golden circlets groom and bride were supposed to wear during the ceremony.

There was much to do indeed, and some of the serving girls of the royal palace were sent over to Sir Geraint’s house to help with the preparations. While most of them had no objections, some – like Branwen and her friend Cathryn – were less than happy about it. Not that they would have anything against working for Lady Cunneware who, while a strict and sometimes demanding mistress, was generally liked and respected among the servants. They took offence that they had been ordered to do so by the new chatelaine of the palace.

“ _Dame_ Guinevere certainly enjoys ordering us around,” complained Branwen while stitching along the hem of the bride’s pale yellow undergown to make the double seam smooth and strong, so that it would hold. The gown was not meant for the wedding alone, after all. Lady Enide ought to be able to wear it for years to come yet. Fortunately, Branwen had a very good hand fro stitching. She could easily have earned her living as a seamstress, too.

Cathryn, working diligently on the knotwork embroidery on one of the white bliaut’s wide, sweeping sleeves, shrugged.

“She liked to lord it over the rest of us already when she was still just Gwen, the blacksmith’s daughter,” she said with a scowl. “Now that she has the power to back her lofty ambitions, she’s gotten worse than ever.”

“She has the _title_ ,” Beatrice corrected, struggling with the folds of the muslin veil, trying to drape it around the vaguely man-sized wooden doll that stood in the corner of the sewing room for that very purpose without getting it crumpled, “but no true power. ‘Tis Sir Kay who runs the royal household.”

The other girls giggled, hearing the indignant tone of her voice.

“No need to be so protective about your lover’s position,” Branwen teased. “No-one is questioning Sir Kay’s authority. Like it or not, though, Prince Arthur _has_ put his little tramp over _us_ , if not over the rest of the household; and she clearly enjoys her new power very much.”

Drea, a young girl who had recently fled to Camelot from one of the destroyed villages and was fortunate enough to find employment in Sir Geraint’s household, was listening to them with huge, frightened eyes. She could not comprehend how these girls would dare to speak about the Prince Regent in such manner. Beatrice saw her perplexed expression and patted her on the shoulder encouragingly.

“Don’t fret, little one. You’ll get used to life at court… and to the gossip that comes with it. You’ll learn that even Kings and Princes are made of flesh and blood and are just as fallible as the rest of us.”

“More so if all that blood sometimes goes in the wrong direction,” added Cathryn with a smirk, and the girls giggled again. 

Drea needed a moment to understand the meaning of that particular comment. When she finally did, she became bright red with embarrassment. Truly, these girls had no shame!

“Do you think the Prince will marry Gwen after all?” Cathryn then asked.

“God, I hope _not_!” exclaimed Branwen with feeling. “She’s bad enough already, trying to act all queenly, meddling with the lords of the realm and their counsels, while simpering about how _it could never be_! Imagine what she’d be like if she got some true power!”

Beatrice, finished with the draping of the veil, sat down next to her and began sewing on pearl buttons onto the tight sleeve of the undergown.

“You better get used to the thought,” she said grimly, “as the Prince seems determined to do just that.”

Cathryn gave her a sharp glance. “How do you know that? I doubt that Sir Kay would share gossip with you during your trysts.”

“He does not,” admitted Beatrice with a hint of disappointment in her voice, “but neither does he _always_ know that I’m in his chambers.”

“You eavesdropped on him?” Cathryn grinned from ear to ear.

“Not willingly!” Beatrice defended herself. “I was preparing his clothes for the next day, putting them in the press. How could I’ve known that Sir Leon would come in and discuss with him the Prince’s love life in the antechamber?” she looked at Branwen. “I thought you’d have heard it from Sir Gwaine already.”

“I have,” confessed Branwen,” but I still haven’t figured out when is he speaking in earnest and when is he jesting.”

“Well, if he tells you that you’re the prettiest girl in the Five Kingdoms, don’t believe him,” advised Cathryn. “He says the same to every barmaid from here to the Irish Sea.”

Branwen laughed with her. “I know; he’s incorrigible. But he’s also brave and generous and charming – and he makes me laugh. I haven’t laughed this much since that evil old witch nearly killed me three years ago.”

“You didn’t have much reason,” said Cathryn, all compassion and understanding now, for it was true that Branwen hadn’t had much joy in the recent years. As if having been nearly killed by a vengeful sorceress hadn’t been bad enough, her almost-husband had been slain by the skeleton army of Morgause earlier in that year. With her parents both dead, she was truly alone in the world.

Cathryn found that Sir Gwaine was the best thing that could have happened to her friend. Not for the long run, of course. He was, after all, a knight, and a mere serving wench did well to know what she could expect from a man who counted as a noble, even if by rank only. But he had helped Branwen to find a little joy in her life again, and in these dark times _that_ was a rare gift indeed.

Cathryn suppressed a sigh and leaned over her work again. She wished _she_ would be so fortunate. But her fate had been decided already; and while she had no objection to marrying Bran, the young manservant her parents had selected for her, she would have liked a romantic liaison with one of the knights, too, ere she would put her neck in the yoke forever.

Well, at least she _did_ have a fiancé, unlike the others. That was worth _something_ , was it not?

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It was in the early afternoon of the fourth day after leaving the Castle of Case when Lancelot and Gilli, who had indeed followed the Old King’s Road, came upon a formidable castle. Proudly did it stand atop a flat hill, built of white stone, its cranellated towers glittering in the sunlight. It was surrounded by two rings of strong stone walls – one around the lower town and one around the castle itself – and seemed nearly as huge as Camelot.

The side path forking off the Old King’s Road led directly to the bridge that covered a wide dry moat that might have once been a river bed of considerable size. The bridge was wide enough for two knights to ride abreast and had three great, grey stone arches upon which is rested. At the other end of the path rose a towering gatehouse with an iron portcullis blocking the entrance.

A blue flag fluttered on the gate tower, with Sir Brandin’s device, which showed the strangest beast Lancelot had seen so far, and considering how many monsters he _had_ seen since meeting Arthur for the first time, _that_ was saying a lot. Statue of the same beast, carved from rough white stone, flanked the gate on either side. 

They were larger than an ox, with six short, bear-like legs with enormous claws. On their bodies they had two shields each, like those of the turtle, but covered with cruel, curved spikes, and the rest of their bodies were covered with closely overlapping scales that formed their armour. Their tails were long and curved like that of a scorpion. Their heads were those of lions, yet with horse ears, and in their snarling maws sat sharp fangs of the size of daggers.

Right in front of the gate, a knight in full armour sat upon his great war-horse, quiet and motionless, as if he had been a statue himself. On his breast and shield, he also bore the image of the strange beasts.

“Here we are,” said Gilli quietly. “That is Dolorous Guard; formerly known as the Castle of Nerluc.”

“What are those creatures?” asked Lancelot. They seem to be most important for the lord of the castle.”

The young sorcerer beheld the beasts with a grim smile.

“Actually, there was only one such creature, ever,” he said. “It was called the _Tarask_.”

“I see,” said Lancelot with a frown, although, frankly, he did _not_.

Gilli apparently understood that, because he launched into a more detailed explanation.

“According to the legends, it was some sort of lesser dragon that came to these lands at a time when Sir Tartarin was the lord of Nerluc. The Terror of Nerluc it was called, for it breathed fire and devastated the landscape wide and far. It was said to have come from Galatia and was the offspring of Onachis the Terrible, a strange, bison-like monster that burned everything it touched.”

Lancelot eyed the bizarre-looking creature doubtfully. “ _That_ is supposed to be a dragon?”

He _had_ seen a live dragon, courtesy of Merlin, and the Tarask could not be compared with that magnificent beast.

“A _lesser_ one,” Gilli emphasized. “One that could not be destroyed by the strength or weapons of any man. Sir Tartarin had attacked the Tarask with knights and catapults, but to no avail. So, at the advice of his court sorcerer, Klinsor, he turned to the virgin priestesses, the Nine that dwelt on the Isle of the Blessed.”

“Was that the same Klinsor who founded your line?” asked Lancelot, impressed.

Gilli nodded. “Yes. In any case, the Nine listened to Sir Tartarin’s plea and sent one of their sisterhood, whose name was Evienne, to deal with the beast. The priestess found the Tarask and charmed it with ancient songs of power and sprinkled water from the Well of Life on it, which quenched all the fire in it. After that, she led the tamed Tarask back to the castle. The townspeople, terrified by the monster from which they had suffered so much, attacked it with a shower of stones. The Tarask, still enchanted by the priestess, offered no resistance, and Sir Tartarin slew it with his lance when he became weakened enough.”

“And his descendants bear the Tarask in their device, even though it was the priestess who actually tamed it,” Lancelot finished.

Gilli shrugged. “When did such minor details ever bother the great lords of the realm?”

Lancelot nodded in grim agreement. Although he was now counted among the lords of the realm, due to his newly discovered nobility, he knew all too well, from previous experiences, how cavalier certain lords could be when it came to present the achievements of their subjects as their own.

“So, what are we supposed to do now?” he asked. “Do we continue our journey or shall I challenge the knight before the gate?”

“You shall not have to do so,” replied Gilli. “The knight will challenge _you_ , should you try to ride by the castle.”

And indeed, in the next moment the knight gave his great warhorse the spores and rode down the side path to the main road, calling out in a clear, ringing voice.

“In the name of Sir Brandin of the Isles, Lord of Dolorous Guard, I challenge you, Sir Knight, to break your lance with me – or be thrown in the deepest dungeons of the Dolorous Prison and branded as a coward.”

“This is hardly fair, is it?” replied Lancelot. “Seeing as I have no lance to begin with, nor proper armour on me – how am I supposed to fight you, Sir Knight, being at such disadvantage?”

“Worry not about that, Sir Knight,” an unexpected voice answered, and a veiled damsel approached them from the direction of a wide, grassy field that stretched into the distance on the side of the road opposite the castle. “I can provide whatever armour you may require, as I was sent to support you.”

They looked at her in astonishment and saw a pavilion, bearing colours and a device neither of them had seen before, near the edge of the field that clearly served as the lists where the knights of the castle faced all opponents that might come this way.

“Who sent you, my lady?” asked Lancelot in surprise.

“Of that let us speak later,” replied the damsel evasively. “Come with me now, and I shall provide you with the armour and the lances you need; for you must face the knights of the first wall ere the sun sets, otherwise your chances to conquer the castle – or indeed to get away unharmed – will be lost.”

Hearing that, Lancelot followed her to the pavilion, even though he was not entirely certain that he could trust her. But he had Gilli with him, in case she would have any hidden agenda. That was _almost_ as good as having Merlin on his side to keep him safe.

Once inside the pavilion, which was divided into a sleeping and a living area by silk screens fastened in wooden frames, Gilli helped the damsel to clad Lancelot into the armour that had already been laid out, ready for him. It was made of pure, polished steel washed with silver, without any badge or device on it that would have revealed either his ancestry or his current status as a Knight of Camelot.

That, again, surprised him a little.

“Should I not be wearing the colours and the device of my King?” he asked.

“No,” answered the damsel. “For now, you must remain unknown; there will be time enough to reveal your name later. Now you must face the knights of the first wall, and you must defeat them, to put an end to the evil custom of Dolorous Guard. For so it has been foretold: that the White Knight shall come and lift the curse of the castle one day.”

“And I am supposed to be the White Knight?” Lancelot shook his head doubtfully, even as he put on his helmet.

“You are not _supposed_ to be him,” said the damsel firmly. “You _are_ him. When the time is right, you shall understand.”

“In that case,” said Lancelot,” perhaps you would be kind enough to give me your favour to wear?”

“Certainly, Sir Knight; and may it bring you the good fortune without which not even the greatest skill and courage could win a champion a fight.”

With that, she tore a slip from her dark grey veil and tied it to his lance like a ribbon on a tournament, right under the level-shaped head that was clearly forged by a skilled weaponsmith. Just like his armour, the weapon, too, was of excellent make.

Thus armed and fitted for the combat, Lancelot mounted his horse again, bowed respectfully over its neck and cantered away, towards the far end of the field. The knight from the gate was already waiting at the other end. There was a hornblow within the castle walls, signalling the beginning of the combat, and they galloped away with all their might, their lances pointing forward.

They clashed in the middle of the field so violently that the very earth trembled under the hooves of their steeds. Lancelot won the challenge in one pass, unhorsing his opponent easily. But before he could make the other knight prisoner, there was another hornblow, and another knight challenged him immediately. This one proved more skilled than the first; it took Lancelot three passes and as many broken lances to unseat him.

The third knight rode up against him without a break. This one was young and clearly much weaker than him. They broke one lance each on the other’s shield, and then the knight of Nerluc went flying across the list on the second tilt. Gilli hurried to his side, helped him to his feet and ushered him behind the pavilion, where the other two were nursing their bruises.

In the meantime, the next knight was riding out of the castle gate already: a true bear of a man in such heavy armour that his great, thick-legged warhorse all but groaned under the weight. Lancelot had to do some very skilled riding if he wanted to avoid being trampled into the ground. They broke three lances, till in the end Lancelot managed to unbalance his opponent, who fell heavily to the ground and broke his neck.

“I regret what happened,” said Lancelot to the castle servants who came to take the dead body back within the walls. “I did not intend to kill him.”

“ _He_ would not have hesitated to kill _you_ , Sir Knight,” one of the servants, a wiry, iron grey old man answered. “And no-one will shed any tears after him, not even his wife; for he was a cruel and heavy-handed man. Do rather your best to defeat the other knights; the townspeople would gladly welcome you as the new Lord of Nerluc.”

“Be quiet!” another servant, this one younger and pale-faced, with haunted eyes, hissed. “If they hear you talk suchly, your life will be forfeit!”

They scurried away in a great hurry, dragging the heavy body of the dead knight after them with visible effort. They were nearly ridden down by the fifth knight who came galloping out of the castle gate, aiming his lance at Lancelot, attacking him without proper warning.

“Beware!” Gilli yelled in alarm. His eyes flashed gold as he stretched out his hand in an imperious manner. One of the lances laid out ready on the ground jumped into Lancelot’s hand in no time.

Lancelot caught it one-handedly and turned his horse in the right direction, using his knees only. He had barely righted the lance in his grip when that of the fifth knight broke upon his shield with a heavy impact. He flailed for balance and nearly became unhorsed, but managed to steady himself, turned his steed around and threw his opponent from the saddle in the second tilt. The hard impact slowed him down considerably, though, and so his defeated opponent clambered to his feet and escaped through the castle gate before he could take him prisoner.

Fortunately for him, the tumult at the gate hindered the next knight long enough, so that he could gather his wits around him again, ere he had to face a new match. This time, his opponent was of a similar build, yet of slightly lesser skills as he himself. Their first two tilts were draws, both lances splintering on each other’s shields as they met. The third – and final – one, however, saw Lancelot emerging victorious, hitting his opponent on the helmet and unhorsing him with relative ease.

This time, Gilli was there quickly enough and helped him take the knight prisoner, escorting him behind the pavilion, where he put a simple restricting spell on all captives.

“I would not trust their word of honour, even if they were ready to give it,” he explained darkly, and Lancelot nodded.

“Neither would I,” he looked around to see what other opponents he would have to face, but the castle gate remained closed. “What now?”

Gilli looked up at the sky. “Night will be falling, soon. There won’t be any other challenges before daybreak. Such is the custom among the Dolorous Knights.”

“All the better,” replied Lancelot with a relieved sigh. “I could use a bath; and perhaps you can do something about my bruises? That would be an advantage tomorrow.”

The young sorcerer shook his head. “I am not good with healing spells, I fear.”

“It is fortunate, then, that I am,” said the damsel. “Come with me, Sir Knight; I shall take good care of you.”

She shepherded him back to the pavilion, where a wooden tub was waiting. While Gilli brought water from a nearby well to fill the tub, she divested Lancelot from his borrowed armour to take a look at his bruises. For that, she lit a candle and folded back her veil, allowing the knight a first look at her face.

“ _You_!” exclaimed Lancelot, reddening in anger. “You dare to show yourself, after what you have done?”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Back at the winter quarters of the Druids, Forridel finished her scheduled scrying and looked at Iseldir expectantly.

“Do you believe that the curse of Nerluc can be lifted?” she asked. “After all this time?”

The head druid shrugged. “It depends on the White Knight. Between Emrys and the young Pendragon, he is the key of balance. If he makes the wrong choice, Albion will never be united – or its unity will be broken again. We must try our best to keep him on the right path.”

“At least we can be certain that Princess Elena’s child will be born,” said Forridel thoughtfully. “The son of prophecy will be needed; for Prince Arthur shall never have a child out of his chosen bride.”

“Is that what you have seen in the Well?” asked Iseldir, and the Guardian of the Well nodded grimly.

“That much is certain. Guinevere cannot conceive without the help of witchcraft, and _that_ is something Prince Arthur shall never turn to. His own birth and the fate of his mother will always hold him back from such a step.”

“Which is a shame, for only a child who unties the warring Houses of Don and Llyr can also unite Albion,” Iseldir sighed.

“Is _this_ the destiny of Guinevere, daughter of Tauren, then?” asked Forridel. “To become Arthur’s Queen and give her life in exchange for the child of prophecy? Because if it is, then our case is lost; the Prince will never make _that_ sacrifice.”

“Neither would Guinevere,” replied Iseldir darkly. “She wants to rule, not to become a martyr, even though she would never admit it. Fortunately, she and Prince Arthur are not the only sons and daughter of their respective Houses; and Sir Lancelot has already showed a certain ability to free himself from the spell of Guinevere. If nought else, he at least accepted his duty towards his unborn son.”

“Yet he had not truly freed himself from her spell yet, not completely,” warned Forridel. “He was supposed to wed Princess Elena and rule Nerluc with her, after lifting the curse of Dolorous Guard. Even if he comes around to do it, after all, there will always be the chance of a great tragedy to happen. Guinevere will never set him free, not voluntarily; he is her safety, in case her plans of becoming the Queen of Camelot may fail.”

“That is not something we could help with,” said Iseldir. “Only Princess Elena can win her knight over for good. Let us hope that with the help of Dame Brisen and the old healer now living in Gawant she can succeed. They both have great powers.”

“We still have the other side of the coin to consider,” reminded him Forridel.

Iseldir nodded. “I know. The unholy alliance of Prince Meleagant and Lady Morgana is of great concern. More so if they manage to find Mordred – that, too, could end in a great tragedy.”

“Can we allow them to find the boy?” asked Forridel. “He is thoroughly evil; he has chosen the dark side, and if he joins them, all hope for Morgana to turn back will be lost.”

“That may be so,” allowed Iseldir. “But we have no right to separate a father from the son he had sought for all his adult life.”

“We might regret our generosity, though,” said Forridel. “We had tried so hard to win the boy over to our side – and failed. It was not our fault, granted; Uther Pendragon did his utmost, as always, to alienate him and made him a sworn enemy of Camelot. Still, we are responsible for him – and partially for his future deeds – nonetheless, as it was the mistake of our brethren that had brought him to Camelot in the first place. Look what has become of him: he has already used his powers to kill, and he will only be encouraged by his father to do so, if it weakens Camelot. United with Morgana, they may become too formidable to deal with, even for Emrys.”

“And yet that is a risk we have to take,” replied Iseldir. “It is not for us to decide whether Prince Meleagant should be reunited with his long-lost son or not. Besides, Emrys is not alone. There is young Gilli, who will become a worthy ally once he has learned how to deal with his powers properly; and there will be others.”

“Should we not try to find those others, though, and prepare them for the inevitable battle?” asked Forridel.

Iseldir smiled at her fondly. “Worry not. Certain moves in that direction have already been made. Do you trust me to know what I have to do?”

“Always,” she replied, without even thinking. “I just wish you would tell me more about it. How am I supposed to help you otherwise?”

Iseldir considered that for a moment.

“Very well,” he then said. “Let us go to the Well and talk.”


	14. The Legacy of the Lady of the Lake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot’s adventure at Dolorous Guard is taken from the Arthurian legends.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 14 – THE LEGACY OF THE LADY OF THE LAKE**

“ _You_!” exclaimed Lancelot, reddening in anger. “You dare to show yourself, after what you have done? I should skewer you on the point of my sword at once!”

“That would be cruel and unwise,” answered the Dame Brisenne, folding back her veil fully. “Moreso as I was entrusted by my lady with the task to help you become what you were meant to be.”

“And _that_ would be?” asked the knight in suspicion.

“The greatest knight of Albion and the father of the child of the prophecy,” she replied.

Lancelot pulled a face. “Elena is hopelessly obsessed with having a child out of me, it seems.”

“Oh, I was not sent by the little princess,” said the Dame Brisenne. “She is merely one of my charges, like young Gilli here is. Like _you_ are. My Lady is – well, she _was_ – Niniane, the Lady of the Lake.”

Lancelot rolled his eyes in disgust. “Oh, for the sake of all that is sacred, what wild tale are you trying to make me believe? The Lady of the Lake is Merlin’s dead girlfriend; and Niniane was nothing but a treacherous maidservant who stole me away from my dying father and grieving mother, so that she could raise me as like a lowly peasant. She is fortunate that she is dead already; or else I _would_ kill her.”

“Impetuous young fool!” hissed the Dame Brisenne, her eyes flashing gold. “You know not whereof you are speaking! My Lady went to your father’s castle in disguise, to keep you safe, for she knew how important you were going to be one day. And she took you because your mother was so ravaged by grief that she could not have taken proper care of you. You were supposed to come to my Lady’s house at the age of twelve and be trained from that tender age on to become a knight.”

“In a godforsaken village among farmers and husbandmen?” asked Lancelot bitterly.

The enchantress shrugged. “That village had been selected _because_ it was small and insignificant. Your father’s enemies would never have looked for you there; and believe me, they _did_ look for you.”

“Well, the bandits did all the work for them thoroughly enough,” scowled the knight. “Tell me, witch, how comes that somebody supposedly so powerful as your Lady could not save herself – or the rest of the village, for that matter?”

The Dame Brisenne sighed. “To live among the simple folk, undetected, she had to lay down her powers, or else they would have betrayed her. There is a spell, an ancient and strong one that can make the most powerful sorcerer, or indeed a priestess of the Old Religion powerless, for a limited time. The spell should have worn out shortly before your twelfth birthday; only that my Lady did not live to see that day.”

“And where were _you_ at that time?” asked Gilli, apparently a bit shocked from having been called her _charge_.

The face of the Dame Brisenne clouded in sorrow. “My Lady had released me from her service, so that I could marry the man I loved. Unfortunately, in his impatience to get to me faster, he chose to ride on the Old King’s Road…”

“… and was challenged by the knights of Dolorous Guard,” Gilli began to see the connection. She nodded.

“He defeated the knights of both the first and the second wall; but Sir Brandin was too strong for him. He lost – and was slain mercilessly.”

“Is this, then, why I had to come here?” asked Lancelot grimly. “To become the tool of your vengeance?” 

The thought did not bode well with him. He did not like being used to serve the purposes of other people – with the exception of Arthur.

The enchantress shook her head. “Oh, no; my loss has nothing to do with your destiny, although fulfilling the one will also mean the fulfilment of the other. But no; you were always meant to come here, conquer the castle and lift its curse. The proof for _that_ is _within_ the castle, though. I cannot show it you before you got in.”

That, again, did not bode well with Lancelot, and he made no secret of his displeasure, but the enchantress was not moved. So, after a lengthy and quite fruitless argument, the White Knight agreed to go on with his efforts to conquer the castle.

“At least I am past the first wall now,” he said. But Gilli shook his head.

“No, Sir Knight, you are not. You’ll have to face ten knights from the first wall again tomorrow.”

Lancelot gave him a wounded look. “What are you talking about? I’ve already defeated six of them four of which surrendered to me as prisoners.”

The young sorcerer shrugged. “That may be so, but you did not manage to beat all ten of them before sunset. Therefore you’ll have to begin the whole combat again in the morn, as if nothing had happened today. Such is the custom of Dolorous Guard.”

“That is not fair!” protested the knight. Gilli gave him a sour grin.

“No, it’s not. That is why it’s called a curse, you know.”

“We can discuss the customs of the castle later,” the Dame Brisenne interrupted them. “Come now and bathe, Sir Knight; you need it, to get the battle sores out of your limbs. I shall look at your injuries and heal them as well as I can; and in the morning, I shall give you something that will aid you in your combat with the knights of Nerluc.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She did as she had promised, and Lancelot spent a surprisingly restful night in the pavilion that could have satisfied the needs of a King. In the morning, he broke his feast, eating sparsely – enough to replenish his strength but not so much that it would make him feel heavy, as he knew he would need speed as much as skills and brawn.

After breakfast, Gilli helped him into his armour and handed him his helmet and the plain white shield he used since he had learned of his true origins. He was about to mount his horse when the Dame Brisenne came out to wish him a good fight.

“I thought you have come to aid me in this fight,” commented Lancelot grimly; he still had not quite forgiven her for the deception in Gawant.

She nodded. “So I have. And for that purpose, I have brought you these.”

She gestured at the three identical white shields leant against the wall of the pavilion. They looked every bit the same as Lancelot’s own shield, with one small exception: one of them had one diagonal red band adorning it, the second one had two, and the third one had three.

Lancelot shrugged. “So you have brought shields to replace mine, should I shatter it in the fight? That is useful, but not much of a help, I fear.”

“You are mistaken,” she said, “for these shields have been enhanced by the powers of the Lady of the Lake, at a time when she still was in full possession of them. The shield with one band will double your strength. The shield with two bands will triple it. The third shield will give you the strength of four men.”

His hopes renewed by such a promising outlook, Lancelot mounted his horse and rode up to the castle. The knight waiting in front of the gate challenged him immediately, speaking the same words his comrade had spoken on the previous day. More hopeful about his chances, Lancelot accepted the challenge, and the two began to fight.

This knight proved stronger and more skilled than the ones Lancelot had already defeated. They fought until he began to tire and his plain white shield was in tatter. ‘Twas time to bring out the better one.

“Your pardon, Sir Knight,” he called. “I need to replace my shield if we want to continue our joust.”

His opponent had no objections, and Gilli already came running, handing him the shield with one red band. Taking the shield, he felt refreshed; his strength returned, and he unhorsed his opponent by the next pass. He jumped from the saddle at once, drew his sword and touched the tip to the knight’s throat, right below the protective steel collar.

“Do you yield?” he asked coldly.

Gritting his teeth, the knight surrendered and allowed Gilli to lead him to the other prisoners waiting behind the pavilion. There was no need to guard them; they were oath-bound to remain there, and they would never break such a solemn oath.

Barely had Lancelot got back into the saddle when the next challenger rode out of the castle, and the battle for the first gate continued. It was taking too long, he admitted after a while. Sometimes he fought one opponent; at other times two or three attacked him at once. He did defeat them, but by the third hour of the day(1) he had still not gotten past the first gate yet, and he was getting frustrated as well as tired again. And he still had two more knights to fight.

“I need the other shield,” he muttered to Gilli, “or I shall never get past this cursed gate!”

Gilli nodded in understanding and ran off to bring him the shield with he two red bands. He felt revigorated at once and turned around his horse to face his new opponent. They levelled their lances and heeled their horses to a gallop. In the middle they met with such force that both their lances splintered from the impact and Lancelot reeled backwards, barely keeping his seat.

He regained his balance immediately, though, and they both wheeled their horses back to their starting positions. New lances were passed to them, and off they went again, careening down the road towards each other. This time, they both remained upright. The knight of Norluc’s lance missed entirely, while Lancelot’s glanced off from his opponent’s shield.

Again, they wheeled around and charged at each other for the third time. Both their lances splintered this time, and they both reeled in their seats. But while Lancelot succeeded in regaining his balance, his opponent slipped sideways, out of the saddle and into the dirt. One of his feet was trapped in the stirrup, and the horse would have dragged him back to the castle on his back, had Gilli not stopped it with a word murmured in a voice too low for anyone to understand. It had to be some sort of spell, though, for his eyes flashed gold for a moment.

The usual horn call announced the last knight of the first gate, and out he rode on a large blue roan destrier, his armour painted black. It was an ominous sight and a meaningful contrast to the White Knight. The people of the castle gathered on the wall in fear and excitement to watch the last combat for the first gate.

Lancelot and the knight of Nerluc saluted each other before taking their places. The people on the walls went utterly still as they were off, charging down the road. Lancelot was first to get his lance into position, acting on instinct rather than led by any conscious thought. The knight of Nerluc was only moments behind, though. They crashed together, Lancelot’s lance splintering, while that of his opponent glanced off his shield. But even so, he could feel that they were evenly matched, both in strength and skills. This promised to be a very hard fight.

To gain himself some advantage, by the second tilt Lancelot attacked with such ferocity that few knights could have stood against. Prince Arthur, certainly. Gwaine, most likely; but not many others. The knight of Nerluc, however, returned his attack with equal ferocity. They both had to struggle to maintain their seats. Lancelot felt dazzled; he had to shake his head to clear it as they were riding back to their starting positions.

“That one rattled him badly,” murmured the Dame Brisenne. “We must help him, or he shall lose, and the curse of Dolorous Guard will never be lifted.”

“But would that be honourable by the laws of chivalry?” asked Gilli.

The enchantress gave him and icy look. “Is what Sir Brandin has been doing for twenty years honourable?”

“True enough,” admitted Gilli after a moment of consideration. “All right, leave it to me. I can be very subtle if I have to.”

“’Tis successful what you have to be,” she returned, clearly not concerned with subtlety – or the lack thereof.

Gilli watched with narrowed eyes as Lancelot and the knight of Nerluc rode at each other one more time. The spectators nearly fell off the walls, breath held in anticipation. Lances shattered violently; Lancelot swayed in his saddle and nearly fell. His opponent was already raising a fist in a gesture of victory when he swayed, too, and slipped out of his saddle, hitting up headfirst on the ground.

“Nice work, youngling,” said the Dame Brisenne approvingly. “Now go and herd his prisoners behind the pavilion with the others. By the 9th hour of the day(2) the first gate of Dolorous Guard will open for the White Knight.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She beheld right with that prediction. As soon as the bells had announced the 9th hour, the heavy bronze wings of the first gate opened, allowing Lancelot into the wide, paved courtyard between the outer and the inner walls of the castle. Just outside the second gate, ten knights in full armour awaited him. They seemed fresh and fairly strong, armed with excellent weapons; Lancelot’s hopes sank again at the sight.

Right in time, the Dame Brisenne came to replace his dented helmet and the shield with the two red bands with the one of three bands. Lancelot felt new strength flow through his limbs like refreshing water and accepted the new, strong lance from Gilli with a confident smile.

He could do this. More than that: he _would_ do this.

“Yes, you will,” murmured the enchantress. “Keep faith; the Lord of Dolorous Guard has watched with astonishment and dismay how you won through the first gate. He’d sent his best, strongest knights to stop you outside the wall – and failed. The ones guarding the second gate are not half as good… but still good enough, so be careful. I cannot help you more than I already have. It is all up to you now.”

“Which one is Sir Brandin?” asked Lancelot.

“He is not among them yet,” she replied. “Him you shall have to face last. He’s up there, on the second wall, watching the combat; learning your strengths and weaknesses.”

Lancelot looked up to where she had gestured and saw a powerfully built knight sitting on a beautiful, blood bay destrier motionlessly like a statue. The horse wore a blanket of ring mail washed with copper, and similarly attired was its rider, too, glittering from head to heal. At first glance his helmet appeared to be shaped like a lion’s head; but when Lancelot took a second, harder look, he could see that it was, in fact, made in the likeness of the _Tarask_ , the mythical beast Sir Brandin’s ancestor had supposedly slain. The same beast was emblazoned upon his copper-washed shield, too.

“Well then,” said Lancelot grimly, “let us give the Copper Knight a good spectacle to watch.”

And with that, he rode up against the knights of the second gate, attacking them all at once.

He could see right away that the Dame Brisenne had been right: _these_ knights could not be compared with the ones he had defeated before the outer wall. He almost effortlessly unhorsed three of them in the first three jousts and was now riding up against the fourth one; a youth of seventeen or eighteen at most, if his still somewhat soft face was any indication.

Nonetheless, the youth seemed awfully eager to defeat Lancelot, and the way he urged his horse into a gallop hinted of worse intentions than just trying to throw the older knight off the saddle. He seemed intent on riding Lancelot down; perhaps even killing him – if he could, which was not very likely.

Still the ferocity of his attack forced Lancelot to be rougher than he would have otherwise been against such an inexperienced boy. As a result, at their second joust, the point of Lancelot’s lance slid up and struck the youngster from Nerluc under the gorget with unexpected force, killing him instantly. He fell into the dirt, bleeding profusely from the severed blood vessel in his neck; the blood seeped into his cloak, colouring it russet brown from the original blue.

Gilli ran to him, took a look, and then shook his head. There was no hope.

The remaining mounted knights, seeing this outcome, tried to flee from the White Knight in terror. Lancelot forced three of them, who could not escape, to surrender to him. Then he chased the other three through the gate, but could not capture any of them, much to his dismay. Finally, he gave up and returned to the courtyard, tired to the bone and more than a little disappointed.

“What now?” he asked the enchantress. “Am I to fight the Copper Knight, too?”

“Not today,” she replied. “Tonight, you shall rest in your pavilion, have a relaxing bath and a good meal and let me heal your injuries. Tomorrow at first light you shall fight the Copper Knight and conquer the castle of Dolorous Guard.”

“But what if they shut the gates in my face again?” asked Lancelot. “Should I not remain within the walls, to make sure that they won’t make me fight another twenty knights again for the right to enter the castle?”

“No, they won’t,” said the enchantress confidently. “The nature of the curse is such that not even the Copper Knight can cheat you of your achievements. Worry not. Gilli and I shall see that the rules are followed honourably.”

“You can do that? Just the two of you?” Lancelot found that a little hard to believe.

“The two of us – _and_ the people of the castle who are most desirous to see the curse lifted,” replied the Dame Brisenne calmly. “Come now and rest. You shall have the hardest fight yet in the morning.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
While still more than a little doubtful, Lancelot finally gave in and returned to his pavilion, where he had a refreshing bath and the enchantress took care of his cuts and bruises. Some people came from the castle to feed his prisoners and look after their needs. They also found the time to pay him a visit, welcoming him to Dolorous Guard and expressing their hope that the White Knight would free them of the terrible curse and custom.

“Even if it means killing your lord?” asked Lancelot one of them: and elderly man who turned out to be the provost of the town.

“Our lord was his uncle, and things were going well enough here, ‘til the day Sir Brandin inherited the castle,” replied the old one sourly. “We shall welcome you as our new lord, Sir Knight, if only you would free us from his evil.”

“I shall try my best,” promised Lancelot, and with that, the town elders left.

In the next morning Lancelot was on his feet shortly after daybreak, preparing himself for the final combat. He knew it would not be an easy one. Sir Branding of the Isles had a fearful reputation, and even though he was nearly twice Lancelot’s age and had others fight his battles in the recent years, he was still a force to be reckoned with.

Once again, the townspeople had gathered on the walls to watch the all-deciding combat that would – hopefully – free them from the tyranny of the Copper Knight and lift the curse that had lasted upon them in the last twenty years. Joyous cries greeted the White Knight, encouraging him to fight hard and wishing him luck and success.

The Copper Knight rode out of the gate on his elegant blood bay destrier without a backward glance, looking every bit as magnificent as he had on the previous day. His lance was fashioned from the redwood of his birthplace, the Summer Isles, bound with bronze rings at every handspan’s length, to make it more resistant. His face was leathery and deeply lined in the frame of his helmet, his eyes dark and full of cold hatred.

With a resounding _clang_ , he dropped his visor, becoming the embodiment of the _Tarask_ and its awesome powers, and took up his position. Lancelot, too, lowered his visor and rode to the other end of the road that served as the lists of the castle. Both knights levelled their lances, waiting for the horn call to start.

The earth trembled under the hooves of their great horses when the call finally came and they broke into gallop. Lancelot leaned forward as he rode, his lance rock steady; with the right impact, he could have lifted an ogre off the saddle.

However, Sir Brandin must have foreseen his tactic, for he shifted his seat deftly, right before the impact. It was a shrewd move; Lancelot’s point was turned off harmlessly by the copper-washed shield with the _Tarask_ blazon upon it, while Sir Brandin’s lance hit square. The lance shattered, despite the bronze rings, and Lancelot reeled, fighting to keep his seat.

A murmur of disappointment went up from the townspeople on the walls.

Lancelot managed to remain in the saddle, though – barely. He wheeled his horse around in a sharp angle and galloped back to his starting position for the second pass. Sir Brandin tossed down his broken lance with an angry scowl and snatched up a fresh one, very nearly knocking his squire off his feet in the process. Lancelot spurred forward in a hard gallop, determined to finish the fight once and forever. Sir Brandin rode to meet him with equal determination, ready to ride him down. This time, however, when the Copper Knight shifted his seat, Lancelot shifted with him. One could never fool him with the same trick twice.

Both lances hit square up on the shields of the other and splintered, thick and hard as if it had been raining icicles. When the splinters had finally settled, the blood bay was trotting back towards the castle, its saddle empty. The Copper Knight, though, was rolling in the dirt, his magnificent helmet so dented due to his fall that he could not get it off again.

The townspeople were howling with mirth, cheering their champion, the White Knight.

They came down from the walls then to lead Lancelot into the town, taking him right to the keep, which was strong and menacing with its square towers of grey, withered stone.

“As the new lord of Dolorous Guard, this now belongs to you,” they said. 

Lancelot found that a little bewildering. The keep was huge, way too large for a lonely knight. Not too large for a family, for sure, but a family was what he would never leave. Not when Guinevere was marrying Arthur.

“What is that place behind the keep?” he then asked. “It seems like some kind of garden… or a holy hain of the Old Religion.”

“It is neither of them, and yet both,” replied the Dame Brisenne. “That is the graveyard of Dolorous Guard. You should pay it a visit.”

“Why should I visit a graveyard?” Lancelot was truly dumbfounded.

“There is a prophecy hinder under an enchanted slab of tone,” she answered. “It might be related to you; but you shan’t know it until you have taken a look.”

“What kind of prophecy?” asked Lancelot in suspicion.

“That I cannot tell,” she said. “It only will be revealed to the one about whom it had been written in stone, many hundreds of years ago. You shall have to go and see it for yourself – otherwise you shall never know if the prophecy _is_ about you or not.”

Lancelot still was not fully convinced, but curiosity got the better of him. He called for an old servant that had served in the castle since before Sir Brandin’s time to lead him to the graveyard.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The graveyard of Dolorous Guard was a grim yet amazing place. Under the long-hanging branches of weeping willows, there were the helmets and tombstones of many fallen knights; some of them of Nerluc of old, died in the service of their legitimate lords, others slain in combat during Sir Brandin’s reign of terror. In the middle of the graveyard stood a small chapel, but its copper-washed doors were bolted and sealed.

“What is this?” asked Lancelot with a frown. The old servant snorted.

“That is the source of great evil, Sir Knight. We keep it bolted, to keep that evil within; not even Sir Brandin dared to visit it more than a few times while he was the Lord of Dolorous Guard. They say, though, that if someone wants to lift the curse, they must enter and face whatever dwells within.”

“Is this the prophecy I have to see for myself?” asked Lancelot.

The old man shook his head. “No, Sir Knight; that is out here.”

And she led Lancelot behind the chapel where, on a small clearing surrounded by weeping willows, a huge slab of grey stone lay. It was large enough to be a tombstone, yet – unlike the others he had seen in the graveyard – it lacked the usual effigy of a knight lying there in full armour, with hands folded upon his chest. Instead, the marvellously smooth surface was etched with an inscription that said:

_This slab shall never be raised by the efforts of any man’s hand, but by him who shall conquer this dolorous castle, and the name of that man is written here beneath._

Lancelot read the inscription; then he looked at Gilli who had accompanied them, with a raised eyebrow. “What am I supposed to do here?”

“You must lift the slab; or at the very least try,” answered the young sorcerer. “If you can, you are the chosen one. If you cannot, the people of the castle must wait for someone else.”

“Chosen for what?” asked Lancelot.

“To lift the curse of Dolorous Guard,” said Gilli. “I told you: a great evil was wrought here, under pressure; this place shall not know true peace until that evil has been purged. But only the chosen one, promised by the prophecy, can do it. His name is written on the underside of this slab; yet the slab is enchanted, so that no-one but the chosen one can lift it.”

“This is a test, then?” asked Lancelot. Gilli nodded.

“Oh yes, it is. And you shan’t know the answer until you’ve given it a try.”

“Oh, well, why not?” Lancelot was fairly sure he would fail the test, but if Gilli insisted…

He reached out with a gloved and was fairly shocked when he could lift the slab effortlessly. It turned upright, revealing the words on its underside: _Here shall lie Sir Lancelot of the Lake, the son of Lord Ban of Benwick_.

He nearly dropped the slab again. Was he truly standing before his own grave?

“Well,” said Gilli, “it appears that you are the chosen one, after all.

“A great joy for us all, now that our salvation is so close!” added the old servant in a joyous voice. Lancelot gave him a stern look.

“If you want that curse of yours to be lifted, you must never speak of what you have just seen here,” he warned. “I want my true name to remain a secret, at least for the time being. People will come and seek for Sir Lancelot, but if they don’t know that he and the White Knight are one and the same, I cannot be found.”

“Whom are you hiding from?” asked Gilli. “From Princess Elena or from your future King?”

“I am hiding from my future Queen,” answered Lancelot. “She must wed Arthur; so much has long been foretold. Yet she cannot do so as long as her heart is divided. I am removing temptation from her way until Camelot has its rightful Queen.”

Gilli tilted his head to the side. “That is very noble of you; but would you not condemn yourself to a lonely life?”

“That cannot be helped,” said Lancelot with a sigh. “I am the champion of the Lady Guinevere, but Arthur is my friend as well as my liege lord. I _have_ to step aside, for him to find happiness and get his Queen as it is foretold.”

“You do not have to remain alone, though,” said the Dame Brisenne; she had come up from a further corner of the graveyard unnoticed. “Princess Elena of Gawant, the sole heiress of Corbenic, loves you with all her heart; _and_ she is bearing your child. She would gladly take you as her husband or her consort, whichever your choice might be.”

“I cannot!” protested Lancelot. “My heart belongs to the Lady Guinevere!”

“So be it,” she returned sharply. “This would not be the first time that a knight of noble lineage married a lady for more than just the quaint reason of falling head over heals in love with her. A bond like that would serve the good of both realms. Lord Godwyn would be pleased; and so would Prince Arthur, I deem.”

Lancelot shook his head. “I cannot do that to Elena. She deserves better.”

The Dame Brisenne let out an impatient sigh. “How can you be so brick-headed? She doesn’t _want_ something better. She wants _you_ , and she does not care who else she might share your heart with.”

“It would be _wrong_ , “insisted Lancelot, and the enchantress rolled her eyes.

“You are a stubborn fool. Despite your outlandish ideals, though, you should remember one thing: Princess Elena is carrying _your_ child, a child of a prophecy. As you may never sire another heir, obsessed as you are with your future Queen, you are responsible for that child. Not only because it may be the only one carrying on your line – you will be responsible for it to fulfil its destiny.”

Lancelot found that he began to understand why Merlin seemed to hate that word so much.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The delay of Sir Lancelot’s return caused various degrees of displeasure in Camelot. Especially Gwen was angered by the absence of her champion, chastising Merlin for leaving him behind time and again; but Arthur himself was not happy about it, either. Lancelot was one of the very few people he trusted unconditionally – even though he knew that Gwen used to have feelings for him – and he hated the thought of losing him.

“I wish I knew where he is dawdling and why,” he said to Merlin in annoyance.

The warlock shrugged. “He must have a reason for being late,” he replied. “He would not do so capriciously.”

“That is exactly what concerns me,” Arthur gnawed on his thumb, without realising what he was doing. “As you have rightly pointed out again and again, we cannot delay the Quest of the Grail indefinitely. Count Waldemar’s generous wedding feast will ease the suffering of the townspeople a bit, but that relief won’t last long. We need to heal the land as quickly as possible. And without Lancelot our chances to find the Grail would be limited.”

“And yet you may not have any other choice but set off on the Quest without him, unless he returns, soon,” warned him Merlin. “Yes, he would be missed, but you have secured the services of quite a few other valiant knights. They will have to do.”

“I would still prefer to have Lancelot with us,” said Arthur stubbornly.

Merlin sighed. “So would I, but you may not have any other choice. When are we setting off for the Quest, then?”

“ _We_?” repeated Arthur, mildly amused. “What makes you think you would be coming with us?”

Merlin batted his eyelashes amiably.

“Firstly, you would be completely lost without me – who would help you into your clothes to begin with? Who’d see that you get fed and bathed properly? Who’d take care of your horse, your armour, and your weapons?”

“I have managed well enough _before_ my father decided to dump you on me, as some particularly cruel form of punishment,” returned Arthur with a grin that did not really reach his eyes. “You’ll have to come up with a better reason than _that_.”

“Well,” Merlin pretended to think about it. “Have I mentioned that I’m a Dragonlord? People who can command a dragon do have their use from time to time, or so I am told.”

He was careful not to mention that he was not merely a Dragonlord. As long as Uther was still alive, he could not admit the full truth and expect Arthur to ignore the laws of Camelot for his sake. Later perhaps…

“I’m sure they do,” Arthur gave in, albeit a little reluctantly. “All right, you _can_ come with us. You’d follow us anyway, get in all kinds of trouble, and then we’d have to delay the whole Quest to save your scrawny backside, as usual.”

Ever since he had learned the truth about Merlin, he had become a little uneasy about his manservant. The easy camaraderie of the last three years was still there, in traces at least, but it was no longer the same. Merlin could feel it, too, and it saddened him very much; but he had always known that it would come to this, once Arthur discovered the truth – well, part of the truth anyway.

“I knew you would come to your senses eventually,” he said with more confidence than he actually felt. He could not be really sure how Arthur would react anymore. “So, when do we set off?”

“After the wedding, of course,” replied Arthur. “We cannot insult Count Wulfheld by leaving before the feast, after all he had done to help us. And we cannot deny Sir Erec the right to join the Quest, should he want to.”

“Why would he want to leave, right after his wedding?” Merlin frowned.

“Because he is a Knight of Camelot, and questing is what Knights of Camelot _do_ ,” said Arthur as if it had been the most natural thing in the world. 

For him, perhaps it was, but Merlin rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“You really have a ridiculous way to see things. Sir Erec has been promised to Lady Enide for longer than I have been in Camelot, and believe me, _that_ seems ages sometimes. After he’d been injured, she held out at his bedside for months faithfully, even though most other women would long have given up hope that he may wake up one day. And now that they can _finally_ wed, you would want him to leave her right after the wedding and ride off on some adventure with you?”

“I don’t want him to come with us,” replied Arthur with forced patience; Merlin really could be such an idiot sometimes! “He, however, might feel honour-bound to do so. That’s the way of the Knights of Camelot.”

“Well, it’s a stupid way,” returned Merlin. “You should forbid him to come with us.”

“I cannot!” Arthur grabbed fistfuls of his own hair in frustration. “It’s the free choice of every knight to join any quest for the good of Camelot.”

“Are you not the Prince Regent of Camelot?” demanded Merlin. “What good are you for the realm if you cannot make a newly wedded knight stay with his bride?”

Arthur was caught unaware by that question. So unaware that he could not even answer at once.

“Sometimes I ask myself the same question,” he finally said, his voice flat.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin became contrite at once, feeling that he had gone too far. “That was not how I meant it.”

“Oh yes, it was, and you know what? You’re right,” said Arthur, his voice turning ever so slightly bitter. “You have become very forthright with your opinions lately, though.”

“Nah; I was always like this,” countered Merlin. “Or did I not call you an ass the first time we met?”

Arthur laughed involuntarily, his mood lifting a bit. That was the thing about Merlin: he could cheer up a rainy day when he put his mind to it.

“That is right,” said the Prince. “I never had such an insolent, disrespectful, loose-mouthed and completely useless servant as you.”

“It is all for your own good,” replied Merlin airily. “Otherwise your head would become too swollen for your helmet to fit.”

They went on like that for a while, laughing and bantering like in old times, but deep in their hearts they both felt that it was not the same. Something had been broken between them at the moment when Merlin had admitted being a Dragonlord; something that might never be made hale again, and they were both mourning that loss, each on his own wise.

The best they could hope for was to re-build their friendship on a more equal foundation of their new understanding. Whether they could actually do so, though, was still a question neither of them could answer right now.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Give him time,” said Hunith, later in the evening, having listened to her son’s complaints patiently for quite a while. “He is barely over the first shock. He must learn to see you through different eyes to understand who you truly are and how much he needs you to become the King he is supposed to be one day.”

“But will he ever trust me again, the way he used to?” asked Merlin in defeat.

“The way he used to? Probably not; but that is not needful, either,” answered Hunith, hugging him in encouragement. “That trust was built on ignorance and got necessarily shattered as soon as the truth – _some_ of the truth – came out. He will, however, learn to trust you again, to trust you differently. He will understand that everything you have ever done in Camelot was for him. And a trust built on _that_ knowledge will last, no matter what.”

“Are you really sure about that?” Merlin still had his doubts, although he wanted desperately to believe his mother. 

He longed for what he and Arthur used to have, longed for it with all his heart. He wanted Arthur to trust him unconditionally again. He wanted it more than anything he had ever wanted in his life.

His mother nodded solemnly. “Yes, I _am_ sure. He is a good boy, and so are you. You will work out your differences. All you need is a little time.”

Merlin laid his head upon his mother’s shoulder as he had done while a small child.

“I’m sorry for what happened in Ealdor, but I’m so very glad you’re here,” he admitted. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too,” Hunith smiled gently in the dying light of the flickering stump of her candle. “I am grateful to have you back… even if only for a short time.”

She did not add that she loved him. There was no need for that between them. He knew that already; just as she knew that he loved her with all his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The third hour of the day is 9 am.  
> (2) The ninth hour of the day is 3 am.


	15. Lifting the Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spells are the same ones as in the TV show, just used in a different context.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 15 – LIFTING THE CURSE **

There was a great feast held in the keep of Dolorous Guard on the evening; a feast that spread out into the lower town as well, people sitting on low benches at trestle tables all over the marketplace, eating drinking and celebrating their fortune finally taking a turn to the better. Only two things dampened their joy. Firstly the fact that their former lord, Sir Brandin of the Isles, had apparently managed to escape after a blacksmith had freed him from his dented helmet and was no-where to be found. Secondly that their new lord, the White Knight, still refused to tell them his name and lineage.

“I have my reasons to do so, at least for the time being,” answered Lancelot to the castle steward. “Once those reasons no longer matter, I shall reconsider.”

“What about Lord Brandin, though?” Gilli, now officially the squire of the White Knight and clad accordingly, in a white tabard with three diagonal red bands, asked. “He can stir up trouble still; more so as the curse has not yet been lifted.”

“Let him go wherever he wants,” replied Lancelot with a shrug. “I shall deal with him, should he dare to show his face again. I’m more concerned about the other knights I’ve taken prisoner. What am I to do with them? I cannot keep them in the dungeons forever.”

“No, but you can – and should – expect their families to pay ransom for them and for their weapons, steeds and armour,” reminded him the Dame Brisenne.

Lancelot shrugged again. “I have no need for their riches.”

“You perhaps have not; but Camelot has,” said Gilli. “You can send all the riches to Camelot, so that the Prince Regent can acquire food from more fortunate realms for his people.”

“And who, pray tell, would take the coin to Camelot?” asked the knight. “I cannot go; not before Arthur and Gwen are safely married. Would you offer to take it yourself?”

“Why not? It would probably be the safest way,” pointed out Gilli reasonably. “After all, who would expect _me_ to carry any kind of treasure on me?”

“What he says does have its merits,” agreed the Dame Brisenne. “But it is too early to be concerned about the ransom money. You have to collect it first. Send messengers to the families of the knights. Knowing that they are kept in the dungeons will make their kin hurry. In the meantime, however, you have one more task to perform; the most important one: to lift the curse of Dolorous Guard.”

“But how could he do that?” protested the castle steward. “The place where the great evil dwells is enchanted. Every knight that has dared to enter it either died in horrible ways or became the next Copper Knight, the servant of that evil… just like Sir Brandin.”

“The curse and the evil were forged by a sorcerer,” said the Dame Brisen. “Only another sorcerer can fight it and survive – and only one of the same blood.”

“That would be me, then,” commented Gilli unhappily, and the enchantress nodded.

The castle steward, however, stared at the simple-looking young man in shocked disbelief. “ _You_?”

Gilli nodded. “My grandsire was the one who forged the evil. Not because he _wanted_ to do but because he was forced to it, by holding his family hostage by the lord of the castle. I do not have the powers he wielded, I fear; neither have I had any proper training – but I do have the _blood_. I shall do everything in my modest powers to pay the debt of my grandsire to the people of Dolorous Guard.”

“That, indeed, has been your destiny from the day on which you were born,” said the Dame Brisenne slowly. “A destiny so burdensome and dangerous that your father backed away from it on the day _he_ was asked to choose. That was why he warned you many times never to use your magic ring: for once you chose to wield your magic, your destiny was bound to catch up with you.”

“So be it,” answered Gilli simply. “I _am_ a sorcerer. I’ve always been one. I was _born_ as one. I may as well _act_ as one.”

“But it will be dangerous,” warned him the enchantress. “The evil forged by your grandsire is very strong. You may have the strength to _fight_ it; you may not have the strength to _survive_ such a fight, though.”

“I know,” said Gilli, “but it is my _destiny_. And it is better to die in a battle against evil, fulfilling my destiny, than waste my life away as the stable boy of a princess, no matter how lovely that princess is.”

“Merlin might disagree with you,” murmured Lancelot.

Gimli shrugged. “True; but _his_ destiny is bigger and more frightening than mine by far. I cannot blame him. But I cannot sit around idly and let you face the evil wrought by my own blood alone, either.”

“Very well,” said Lancelot after a lengthy pause. “Tomorrow, we shall face it together, then.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morning the castle steward led Lancelot and Gilli to the small chapel in the middle of the graveyard again. No-one of the other castle servants dared to go with them and the old man seemed quite terrified, too. So terrified indeed that he stopped when they were still at least ten paces from the entrance.

“Forgive me, Sir Knight,” he said to Lancelot, “but I cannot go any further.”

Lancelot, wearing the armour that had earned him the name ‘the White Knight’, nodded in understanding.

“Go,” he said, “This is not your fight. Gilli and I shall try our best to free your town from this curse.”

“If you do, then it will be _your_ town, Sir Knight,” answered the old man with the ghost of a smile on his deeply lined face, “and then it will need a new name.”

With that, he bowed and backed off but didn’t leave the graveyard entirely. He remained at the edge of the circle of weeping willows to offer them the comfort of his presence at the very least. From somebody of his age and without any magic powers it was a very brave thing to do, Gilli found.

“Come on then,” Lancelot said to him. “Let us do this before I change my mind.”

Gilli nodded in agreement. He knew Lancelot was not afraid of a fight – or even of magic; nobody who called Merlin a friend would. But the evil dwelling beneath that ancient chapel was very strong indeed. They could both feel it, sending out wafts of terror all around the little building of withered stone, like wafts of thick, choking fog.

Gilli swallowed hard and steeled himself against the inevitable confrontation with his grandsire’s creation. He took the magic ring – his only inheritance – out of his pocket and put it on his finger, feeling the reassuring warmth of power flow through his whole body, from the roots of his hair to his toes. He only hoped it would be enough.

“I am ready,” he announced in a steady voice; then, with a crooked smile, he added. “Or as ready as I'll ever be.”

Lancelot grinned at him mirthlessly. “Sounds familiar. Come!”

They made the remaining ten paces to the chapel’s door as if walking through molten stone… it was hard to fight the terror that tried to overwhelm them. Finally they were standing there, right in front of the heavy, copper-washed iron wings that depicted some bizarre-looking trees in high relief, their trunks tightly wound with ranks of poison ivy that seemingly tried to choke them.

The doors were bolted with heavy wooden beams, but whatever evil was trapped behind them, it had already begun to do away with the beams – they were blackened and so rotten that they might fall apart any moment now.

“Don’t touch the wood,” Gilli warned the knight. “It’s already infected with decay. Let me deal with it.”

He raised his hand, his fingers spread wide as Lancelot had seen from Merlin a few times when casting a spell, and hissed in the ancient, harsh language of magic, “ _Bærne_!”

The decaying wood caught fire at once and burned to ashes within moments in the magical flames. The ashes had an unpleasant, vaguely sulphurous smell but Gilli could not let himself be distracted by that… and by the question what it may mean. He lifted his hand again, now aiming at the door-wings themselves and murmured an opening spell, “ _Aliese duru rýne_!”

The heavy wings obeyed reluctantly, swinging outwards. Darkness poured out into the graveyard from the barren room behind them like black ink. It seemed that the chapel itself was nothing but an empty awning that served to conceal the entrance to an underground vault.

“We could use some light in there,” said Lancelot. “Could you…”

But Gilli shook his head.

“It would cost me power to create and keep going a guiding light,” he said. “And I shall need all my powers to help you when you face the worst. We’ll take torches.”

Lancelot rolled his eyes. “How? I only have two hands and need them both, for sword and shield!”

He had taken the strongest of Dame Brisenne’s magic shields with him, the one with the three diagonal red stripes that would give him the strength of four men; and was not about to let it, or indeed his sword, behind to carry a torch.

“ _I will_ take the torches, then,” replied Gilli with a long-suffering sigh and he picked up two of said items that were lying in a pile inside the door and lit them with a spell.

The torches did little good to illuminate the absolute darkness within, but at least they cast enough light before their feet that they would not break their necks on the steep winding tunnel that led down to the vault beneath. Thus they reached a small, square chamber built of barren stone at the end of the tunnel with all their bones hale.

The chamber, just like the chapel itself, was empty, save for a large bronze door showing the same disturbing design as the one above. It was guarded by two knights in copper-washed armour, their helmets shaped like the heads of monstrous birds, the cruel, curved beaks protecting their nose and reaching below their chin. They were armed with short broadswords, in the blades of which ancient runes were engraved.

“Be careful,” Gilli warned the White Knight in a low voice. “Those blades are enchanted. Don’t let them wound you – they would poison your blood.”

Lancelot could not even thank him properly for the warning as the two copper knights – presumably Sir Brandin’s most trusted men – attacked at once, and he had his hands full with fending off their attack. The fact that his sword was longer and he himself a much better swordsman than either of them barely helped to even out the odds of two opponents and enchanted blades. 

Nonetheless, he fought with all his might, which wasn’t an easy feat given the smallness of space at his disposal, and felled one of the copper knights. At the same moment, though, he also felt the sword of the other one pierce his shoulder. He cried out in pain; it felt as if liquid fire would run through his veins, burning him up from the inside out. He fell onto his knees, the sword-hilt slipping from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

The other knight grabbed his broadsword with both hands and lifted it above the helpless White Knight to run him through with the cursed blade when Lancelot heard Gilli call something that sounded like _Hleap on baec!_ – and the copper knight suddenly flew backwards, knocking his head against the opposite wall with a loud _clang_.

“What… have you… done?” asked Lancelot through gritted teeth. The burning pain was sheer unbearable.

“Stunning spell,” replied Gilli shortly. “Now, listen to me. I cannot heal this wound, but I can suppress the pain long enough for you to finish your task. Once it is fulfilled, the enchantment will be broken and your wound can heal like any other battle wound.”

“Then do it!” hissed Lancelot. Gilli sighed.

“I will. But that will mean that I shan’t be much help for you later, as the greatest part of my strength will be needed to keep you in a fighting shape.”

“That’s… enough,” Lancelot gritted his teeth again. “I’ll do… the fighting…”

“Very well,” Gilli did not like it, he knew the worst part was still before them, but he did not really have a choice. Collecting his strength, he held out his hand over Lancelot’s wounded shoulder and murmured, “ _Ic ðe ðurhhæle ðinu licsar mid ðam sundorcræft ðære ealdan æ. Drycræft ðurhhæle ðina wunda ond ðe geedstaðolie_.”

Lancelot felt the burning lessen gradually. It did not go away completely, but it ebbed away enough for him to pick up his sword again.

“Can you keep the pain on this level?” he asked Gilli.

The young sorcerer nodded. “For a while. You should not waste more time, though.”

“I’ll try,” Lancelot took several deep breaths and clambered to his feet. “Can you open the door or would it cost you too much strength?”

“No; it’s an easy spell,” Gilli stared at the door and said casually, “ _Aliese_!”

The door swung open noiselessly and they were engulfed in darkness… no, it was more than merely darkness. It was definite blackness, and it seemed to pour out from a stone well in the chamber behind the door like thick, oily black smoke, sucking up all light in its way like a living thing. The torches that Gilli had put into the iron rings mounted to the wall began to splutter.

“Here we are,” said the young sorcerer softly. “The _Well of Blackness_. A tear in the fabric between our world and the Otherworld, through which evil spirits can escape and wreak havoc among men. This is the evil my grandsire has wrought; and it cannot be undone by aught else but his own blood… which, in this case, would be me.”

“How are you supposed to do that?” asked Lancelot.

“I don’t know,’ admitted Gilli. “All I know is that the answer lies in the Perilous Chest, which can be found somewhere in the next room… _if_ we can win past the Black Guardian – _and_ the Well itself.”

“Who is the Black Guardian?” Lancelot wondered, and Gilli pointed to the other side of the Well.

“ _He_ is.”

Following his gesture, Lancelot saw a huge _gestalt_ – that of a knight in a black armour, wearing a horned helmet and wielding a cruel-looking double-axe that was as large as Gilli himself. Flames were coming out of his mouth, bathing the otherwise ink-dark room in an unholy red glow.

“He is a wraith, one of the living dead, conjured up from his grave to protect the Well," explained Gilli in a low voice. “Swords are of no use against him, unless they were forged in a dragon’s breath, which yours was _not_. You must try to throw him into the Well; that way he’ll be trapped in the otherworld when we seal the Well and cannot get out again.”

“Seal the Well?” repeated Lancelot doubtfully. “Are you certain that we can do that?”

“Let that be my concern,” answered Gilli with a lot more confidence than he actually felt. “Yours should be the Guardian; for he has spotted you by now and you have but little time to attack before _he_ does.”

Indeed, the Black Knight had turned towards them, raising his huge axe to attack. Without thinking, Lancelot charged towards the Well, leaping across the withered stone ring and slamming his shield against the face of the Guardian as hard as he could. The shield shattered on impact before he would crash into the Black Knight and they both hit the wall behind the Well hard enough for even the wraith to lose its balance.

In the next moment, however, it straightened again, as if nothing had happened. The flames coming from its mouth blackened Lancelot’s silvery-white visor and he cried out in pain as his helmet became burning hot.

Seeing the deadly peril of the White Knight, Gilli summoned what little strength he had left beyond what was needed to keep Lancelot on his feet and extended his hand towards the Guardian.

“ _Acwence þa bælblyse!_ ” he hissed. Then he collapsed on the floor, his strength spent.

But the flames _were_ quenched, and in a sudden bout of anger and despair Lancelot strangled the Black Knight with his bare hands and threw him into the Well with one fluid motion. There was a terrible rumbling noise beneath their feet and red flames shot up from the Well for a moment, ere it would go dark and silent again. Like a grave.

Lancelot collapsed on Gilli’s side, breathing heavily. The fire began to spread from his shoulder wound through his every limb anew.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “I’m... burning again…”

“Give me… a moment…” Gilli’s breathing was laboured, too, and he clutched his magic ring desperately. “Just… a moment to… to gather… my strength…”

Neither of them could tell how long they sat in that dark chamber, utterly exhausted and unable to move. But Lancelot could feel the burning in his veins lessen gradually and he knew that Gilli’s powers were slowly returning. He waited with as much patience as he could master, considering their perilous situation.

Finally the young sorcerer shook himself and clambered to his feet.

“Let us go,” he said. “I have regained as much strength as I can while still keeping you alive; and our task here is not done yet.”

“Are you sure you can do this?” Lancelot accepted the helping hand extended to him to get to his feet, too.

“No,” admitted Gilli with brutal honesty, “but I have to try. You have got us this far – the rest is my task to do.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He opened the other door with the same spell and, walking through it, they found themselves in a forest of copper beeches… or so it seemed. In truth, it was a cavernous underground chamber, the flat ceiling of which was held by copper pillars wrought in the shape of beech trees being choked by ranks of poison ivy. For some reason that seemed a recurring motif of the place – and not a reassuring one.

In a small clearing in the middle of the chamber stood a tall, willowy woman in a stunning gown of heavy, copper-coloured brocade that was seamed with a decorative ribbon in red and black. Her hair, straight and long enough to reach down to her hips, also had the colour of copper and was held together by a broad golden circlet engraved with ancient runes. Her eyes were green and seemed to burn in her white face; her bare shoulders, too, gleamed white in the reddish light of the chamber. In her delicate hands she held a copper ring with a set of keys.

“The Lady of Malohaut,” murmured Gilli. “Once the mistress of this castle but trapped forever by the dark magic of the Well to guard the Perilous Chest. You must take the keys from her; but be careful: she will try to catch you in her net of enchantment and make you her eternal servant.”

“My heart is already enchanted beyond help,” replied Lancelot. “There is no room for the charms of another woman.”

With that, he strode straight to the Copper Woman and grabbed the ring with the keys from her hand. He could feel the power of enchantment emanating from her, battling with the hold Guinevere had on his heart. It was so strong that he nearly passed out, weakened as he already was from his enchanted wound. 

With the last of his strength, though, he tore the ring from her hand and she collapsed noiselessly in a heap of brocade and gold. Lancelot handed the keys to Gilli.

“What now?” he asked.

“The largest pillar, the one behind you, has an inscription that might help,” Gilli walked up to said pillar and tried to decipher the runes. “Yes, that is it. The large key is to unlock the pillar that contains the Perilous Chest. The other one is for the Chest itself. Once the Chest is opened, the enchantment will be broken.”

“But how do we find the right pillar?” asked Lancelot.

Gilli was still studying the runes. “That stands here, too. The seventh one on the left; then the third one on the right; and then straight on to the last one. That is easy; we just have to count.”

As the writing had promised, they found the right pillar with relative ease. The keyhole was cleverly hidden between the ivy ranks, perchance even by magic, so Gilli had to cast a location spell to find it, but then they could simply unlock the pillar and lo! Within it lay a small ebony chest inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl.

“Is this it?” asked Lancelot a little doubtfully. It was pretty, for sure, but it looked too small and harmless to hold the key to destroying the evil that ha dwelt in this place for two generations.

“It must be,” replied Gilli with a shrug. “Hold it while I unlock it.”

He put the smaller key into the keyhole and turned it… once… twice… thrice.

Nothing happened.

Gilli muttered something under his breath angrily then cast an opening spell. “ _Onhríne achtung bregdan!_ ”

The arched lid of the chest sprang open with an ominous hissing sound – and in the next moment Gilli was looking down in shock at the thirteen iron thorns embedded deeply in his chest.

“Well,” he said weakly, “now we know why it is called the Perilous Chest.”

“Don’t waste your breath speaking!” Lancelot ordered. “Sit down, I’ll bring help.”

But Gilli shook his head with a sad little smile. “There is no help for me, my friend; save one. Help me to get to the Well.”

“What for?” asked Lancelot, bewildered. 

“We need to pluck these enchanted thorns from my flesh and throw them into the Well,” explained Gilli tiredly. “It’s my blood that seals the Well, now that the enchantment is broken. I always knew that; but I always thought it was just a figure of speech. Now we both know better, don’t we?”

“Is there truly no way to save you?” Lancelot felt hot tears shoot into his eyes.

Gilli shook his head again. “None. That is why my grandsire could never undo the evil he’d been forced to create. He would have to sacrifice one of his own blood – either me or my father. Now we have come to full circle. All I need to do… is to seal the well and… and the debt of my… my family to the people of Nuroc… will be paid. Please… help me…”

He was weakening quickly; the dark magic in those thorns must have been very strong. Lancelot helped – well, almost carried – him to the outer chamber and leaned him against the Well. He wanted to help plucking the thorns from his chest but Gilli batted his hands away.

“We cannot know… what kind of evil… they are drenched with…” he gasped. “They may… kill you if you… cut yourself…”

Lancelot understood that Gilli was probably right, but he still found it painful to watch the young sorcerer pluck those cruel iron thorns from his own flesh, one by one, and let them fall into the Well with trembling hands. The darkness seemed to lessen by every thorn swallowed by that bottomless chute, though, and when the last one fell, the outline of the Well warbled briefly – and then it was gone. There was nothing but the smooth stone floor of the chamber.

The two copper knights that had guarded it were gone, too, their empty armour lying in a heap on the floor, abandoned but for the two small piles of pale ash underneath.

However, the chamber with the copper pillars was still there, and so was the Copper Woman whom Gilli had called the Lady of Malohaut, so they, at least, had to be real, not something conjured up by dark magic. The Lady was stirring already, but as she saw Lancelot approaching, she shrieked, turned into a swarm of black butterflies and flattered away. Clearly a sorceress, then; but she was probably just glad that she could escape after her long imprisonment.

“It seems that we are done here,” said Lancelot to Gilli. “Let me take you up to the light again.”

Gilli nodded weakly and, leaning against Lancelot’s good shoulder, the two began to climb the winding tunnel back to the surface.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When they reached the daylight again, the people of the entire castle were gathered at the graveyard, waiting for their return. Everyone who had lived under the burden of the course for so long could feel its ending at the moment it had been lifted, and now thy wanted to thank their saviour properly. Their joy was turned to sorrow, though, when they saw the White Knight wounded and his faithful squire at death’s door. 

The Dame Brisenne rushed to their side, checking first Lancelot’s wound and found it painful yet not life-threatening.

“Take your new lord to his chambers, free him from his armour and bathe him,” she ordered the servants. “I shall come and dress his wound later. I must look at this young one first, for he is in a bad shape and shan’t last long on his own.”

“Shouldn’t you tend to the lord first and then to the servant?” called someone from the gathered crowd accusingly. 

Hearing this, Lancelot whirled around, his eyes blazing through the slit of his visor.

“You fool!” he all but spat. “That _servant_ , as you call him, is the last sorcerer from the blood of Klinsor the Great. He has put his very life at risk to break the enchantment and lift the curse, which I could never have done without him. _He_ is the one you whom you should be grateful. For only by his blood could we all be saved; and he spent it willingly for the good of you all.” 

He turned to the castle steward. “I want him to rest in my own chambers as long as there is still life in him; and once he’s passed over, I want him to be buried right next to the Stone of Prophecy. For without him, the Prophecy would never have come true.”

The old man bowed respectfully. “It shall be as you order, my lord.”

At that Lancelot finally allowed the servants to lead him away.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Gilli lived to see three more days, resting peacefully in Lancelot’s bedchamber. Due to the Dame Brisenne’s potions he was in no pain and was slumbering most of the time. In his lucid moments, however, he talked to Lancelot about his life and entrusted him with his last message to Merlin – and with his magic ring, which he also wanted Merlin to have.

“Dark times are coming,” he said with the otherworldly clarity of the dying. “I wish I could be with him, fight the darkness at his side; for he will need all the help he can get. But if I cannot help him myself, at least he should use my ring to focus his strength.”

“You have fought the good fight bravely,” said Lancelot, trying to hide his grief, for he had grown fond of the young man during their adventures together. “You could have become one of the greatest warlocks of our time.”

“Perhaps,” Gilli allowed; now that he was no longer in pain, his speech had become smooth and easy again. “But I am not the warlock Albion truly needs. That is Merlin; and he will need your help, too. Promise me that you shall not abandon him.”

“Never,” said Lancelot solemnly. “You don’t even need to ask; he is my friend. Perhaps the only friend I still have.”

Gilli nodded tiredly and seemed to fall asleep.

“Good,” he murmured as in his sleep; but then he looked up again and his eyes were sharp and very much awake. “There is another one you owe your protection, though,” he said. “Princess Elena… you _must_ do right with her and the child she is carrying.”

“She tricked me!” Lancelot muttered angrily. Gilli nodded.

“She did… but not for her own good. I saw the scroll of the Prophecy kept in the library of Gawant. You were _always_ meant to father her child. She just followed her destiny; as I did. As Merlin does every day he spends in Camelot in the disguise of a lowly servant. As _you_ must.”

“My heart belongs to Guinevere alone!” protested Lancelot.

Gilli coughed, and when he lowered the handkerchief again, there was blood on the white linen.

“Your heart you can keep,” he then said hoarsely. “No-one cares for it. It is your destiny that matters; and your destiny is that child under Elena’s heart. You must see that it grows up safely and is raised properly, for one day the fate of Albion shall rest upon his shoulders.”

“I will,” Lancelot promised solemnly. Gilli closed his eyes.

“Then I can leave this world in peace,” he whispered, drawing his last breath and then quieting forever.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morning, right at daybreak when the first reddish light of the sun was poured across the sky like blood, many of the townspeople of Nuroc gathered at the graveyard of Dolorous Guard to say their final farewells to Gilli, the son of Gwym, from the blood of Klinsor the Great. For he had been born in that very town, and many of the simple folk still remembered him: boys who had played with him in the dirt, the cutler to whom he had been apprenticed as a young lad, matrons whose court he had swept for a small coin to help his parents, fruit vendors from whom he’d stolen the one other apple when the hunger had become too much… and so on.

The older people remembered his parents, too. His father, a quiet, withdrawn, soft-spoken man who‘d eked out a meagre living for himself and his family as a stable hand, for he’d been very good with horses. His mother, a thin, wraith-like young woman with haunted eyes who had laboured in the lower town inn as a scullery maid and always seemed deadly afraid of the castle itself.

And some of the oldest ones even remembered his grandsire; speaking in low voices with a hand held before their mouths about the powerful sorcerer who had wrought the evil that had dwelt under the castle for so long. And who had been kept in the deepest dungeon afterwards, to do all of his lord’s biddings – or watch his entire family die slowly and in great pain.

Then Lancelot and the Dame Brisenne came forth and told the townspeople about the Gilli that they did _not_ know. The one who took part on the free tournament of Camelot and fought well. Well enough indeed to face King Uther himself in the final round. The one who – although he had the greatest enemy of all sorcerers and everything that’s magical at his mercy – spared the King’s life in the end. The one who had wandered from realm to realm, using his skills to help the simple folk in need. The one who had served in the Castle of Gawant as a stable boy, just because an old woman needed him. And the one who’d accompanied the White Knight on this perilous task and gave his life to undo the evil wrought by his grandsire.

The townspeople were beside themselves with amazement hearing those tales. Only one of them – a big, brawny man wearing a hooded cloak of coarse brown wool – was scowling angrily in the shadow of his wide hood.

“We’ll see,” he muttered under his breath. “A wandering knight of questionable blood, a dead conjurer and a handful of peasants are not enough to beat Sir Brandin of the Isles for good. He may have suffered a minor defeat, but this battle is not over yet by far.”

His companion, wearing similar garment, nodded grimly. 

“Our lord did well to seek refuge on the inlet,” he replied. “We have faithful men there, not such lowly traitors as here. They will protect him while he recovers, and then – then the day of reckoning shall come.”

“Are you certain that the castle servants don’t know about our hiding place?” the first one asked. His companion nodded.

“Our man in the lower town has his ears and eyes wide open,” he answered. “He will send us word should anyone find our track. In the meantime we must find out who this White Knight is and what kind of allies he may have. For I believe he had more help than just Klinsor’s last, ill-begotten progeny.”

They parted ways at the entrance of the courtyard to seek out their secret allies in town and castle. The rest of the townsfolk, not knowing that their former tyrant was already forging plans to return, celebrated their newly won freedom in great delight. Whole pigs and oxen were roasted over open fires all across the town. There was music and dance and jesters and mummers on the marketplace. And ere the sun would set again, the free men of the town swore fealty to their new lord, the White Knight, and the castle was renamed Joyous Guard.

Only Lancelot himself did not feel like celebrating. He was grieving for Gilli, and he was alone among strangers. He missed Merlin, he missed Arthur, he missed his fellow knights of the Round Table – but most of all, he missed Guinevere.

He knew she would never be his – she had chosen Arthur and to become the Queen of Camelot, and Lancelot found he couldn’t blame her. Arthur was more than worthy of her attention and loved her very much; and besides, which girl would refuse to become a queen? More so if she had laboured as a lowly servant all her life? Such things only happened in fairy tales; and if her fairy tale was about to come true, who could expect her to throw it away?

Still, he longed for her so badly that it hurt. The night spent in Princess Elena’s arms, believing to have lied with Guinevere – the night in which his son, the child of the Prophecy had been conceived – hand changed nothing about that. Even if he had truly been fated to father Elena’s child, even if his devotion to Guinevere was based on some strong enchantment as the Dame Brisenne had suspected, it did not lessen the strength of his feelings. Unless the enchantment was broken – if there _had_ indeed been an enchantment to begin with – he would always love Guinevere; and Guinevere alone.

Perhaps it had also been fate that led him to Nuroc and its cursed castle. After all, had the slab of stone on the graveyard, the one with his true name and lineage carved into it, not waited for his arrival for so long? Here he could hide his broken heart from Arthur and his court. Here he could be his own master; at least for a while. 

Because once Arthur became king of Camelot, he would summon all Knights of the Round Table. And that was not a call Lancelot would be able to resist.

Until then, being the Lord of Joyous Guard was not such a bad thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on updates may become less frequent, as the last chapters haven't been hand-coded yet. My apologies. I'll try to put them up as fast as I can.


	16. Sir Percival and the Haughty Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dishes listed here are from The Gode Cookery website. I find it most helpful when in need to create medieval feasts.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Chapter 16 – Sir Percival and the Haughty Knight  
**  
The wedding feast of Sir Erec of Ester-Gales and Lady Enide of Laluth was celebrated on the eve of the Winter Solstice, which marked the longest and darkest night of the year.

Those who were secretly still following the Old Religion sometimes also referred to this day as Yule, and in some places, deeply hidden in the woods, they even dared to burn the oaken Yule log in honour of the newborn light. In Camelot, however, the festival was known as the _Alban Arthuan_ , the Light of Arthur; for in this very night had their young Prince been born twenty-two years ago.

The birthday of the Prince – despite it also being the death day of Queen Igraine – was always celebrated copiously. Sir Ector and Count Waldemar of Laluth, Lady Enide's father, had specifically chosen the day for the wedding, so that the hungry townsfolk could remember having eaten well on this day. In times like these it was important that the simple folk could tie the few good things happening to them to the throne.

Count Waldemar, whose wealth and generosity had made such a feast possible in the first place, knew that and did not mind. His strong connection to Camelot protected him from the transgressions of King Trevizent of Nemeth, whose subject he technically was, therefore it was in his best interest to _keep_ Camelot strong.

It was agreed upon that Geoffrey of Monmouth would perform the wedding ceremony and that Sir Geraint would stand with his younger brother, as their father could not leave Ester-Gales, while Count Waldemar would stand with his daughter. As Enide's mother was no longer alive, Lady Cunneware, Sir Geraint's wife, took over the role of the mother of the bride.

The Great Hall of Camelot, usually serving as the throne room, had been transformed into a banquet hall – and magic had _nothing_ to do with that transformation, although Merlin, roped in to help, wished he would be allowed to use his powers from time to time. Setting up the long trestle tables for all the noble guests, decking them with dishes of pure silver, decorating the hall with garlands of holly leaves and mistletoe was hard work, and it took a long time. Especially with the piercing eyes of Sir Lucan of Carduel, Uther's wine steward, constantly in their backs. Even the pages, nobly born or otherwise, had been recruited to help, much to Lionel de Gaunes' dismay.

Gwen, wearing a stunning gown of dark mauve velvet, the wide sleeves of which nearly swept the floor and revealed the tight-sleeved linen undergown of pale gold beneath, overlooked the hectic activity in a regal manner. As if she were their Queen already, as many a servant, especially the female ones bitterly remarked.

Branwen in particular was very forthcoming with her barbed remarks and Ivanneth, the ranking page – once in the service of the Lady Morgana – only fuelled her anger. Even Beatrice, usually mild-mannered and fond of unlikely romances, was quite upset by the unfairness of fate. Her status as Sir Kai's woman might win her certain privileges, but she knew that he would never marry her; not even if he should choose to keep her on the side after having found a proper wife.

What had Gwen done to deserve such fortune? As if catching the eye of the Prince weren't enough, he also wanted to _marry_ her? The blacksmith's daughter? King Uther would have a word to speak about _that_ , was everyone's opinion.

For King Uther had sent word that he would attend to the wedding – and his son's birthday feast – and that was news that excited everyone. Uther Pendragon might have his faults – particularly when it came to his obsession with the pursuing of magic and its users – but he was a great king nonetheless. One who had kept the realm safe for decades, and his subjects loved him for that and were willing to forgive at least some of his mistakes.

Having him appear in public again gave them the much-needed feeling of safety that neither Sir Erec nor Prince Arthur could provide. Sir Erec was a _stranger_ who rarely visited Camelot and the people did not know him. And as much as they adored Arthur, the Prince was _young_. He still had much to learn about ruling the realm.

The wedding guests came from all five kingdoms and beneath. It was a noble crowd, worth to be immortalised in song and legend. The kings themselves could not come, of course. Not after such a devastating war between Camelot and Cenred recently. But they sent their sons or nephews or other heirs – or, in King Olaf's case, their daughter.

Not that poor Lady Vivienne would seem too happy about being in Camelot again. She was apparently still not freed from the enchantment that had made her fall madly in love with Arthur. Sitting next to the breath-takingly beautiful Iseult, Princess of Ireland and betrothed to King Marke of Cornwall, Vivienne appeared pale and unhappy. She barely spoke either to Princess Iseult or to Sir Tristan of Cornwall, who was sitting across the table. Neither did she show much of an appetite; in truth, she looked more like a wraith than a woman of flesh and blood.

"Olaf should never have sent her," said Geoffrey of Monmouth to Gaius, shaking his head sadly. "That poor girl had been pining for Arthur ever since hit by the love spell of Alined's court conjurer. A shame you weren't able to break it. Seeing Arthur will not help her state of mind."

"No," Gaius agreed. "Unfortunately, you cannot simply _break_ a love spell. Only a kiss from her true love could do that."

"You truly believe that Guinevere is Arthur's true love?" asked Master Geoffrey doubtfully.

"Well, she _did_ break the spell," reminded him Gaius. "She wouldn't be able to do that otherwise, unless…" he trailed off, a disturbing thought occurring to him.

"Unless _what_?" Master Geoffrey insisted.

"Unless she had already put him under a much stronger spell," answered Gaius slowly. "Which is rather unlikely."

"Unlikely… but not entirely impossible, is it?" said Master Geoffrey. "Now that we know that she is, in truth, Tauren of Cameliand's base-born daughter…"

Gaius shook his head. "No, Geoffrey, I refuse to believe that. Gwen is a good person."

"You mean she _was_ a good person," corrected Master Geoffrey. "Until a few years ago. Until she met her true father. Or are you telling me you have not noticed how much she's changed lately? How much she relishes in the power and riches Arthur's attention has secured for her? She is no longer the sweet, simple maid she once was."

"Still, I cannot imagine that she would harm Arthur," protested Gaius, unable to deny the very obvious changes in Gwen's nature and demeanour. Master Geoffrey nodded.

"Of course not. She wants him – and to become the Queen – too much. The question is, whether it is in Arthur's best interest to marry her. Even if her mother was a daughter of the House Llyr."

To that Gaius had no answer, and they fell silent as the first course of the moderately opulent meal was being brought in.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It was not the most pompous festive meal Camelot had seen, not even since Merlin had entered Prince Arthur's service. It would have been impossible for Count Waldemar to provide _that_ much. Still, it was the best one that people had seen for a long time. And what the feast might have lacked in opulence, it certainly balanced out with ceremony, entertainment and joyous expectation

It started with _pandemayne_ , the finest white bread the royal baker could produce – and he was a master of his trade, known beyond the walls of Camelot for many an excellent loaf he had sent to the King's table – and parsley butter in the first cause, followed by _mete broth_ a rich chicken and pork soup made with almond milk. After this course the guests got to enjoy the performances of some local jesters and jongleurs.

The second course consisted of _Tartes de Charre_ , small pies of baked meat, with _sallet_ – a salad of pickled vegetables, with a generous seasoning of herbs, and _peascoddles_ : peas cooked in milk and seasoned with ginger.

In the pause between courses, the minstrels of the town were allowed to entertain the guests while they rested a little, so that they could look forward to the third course with proper expectation. They praised the beauty of the bride – and rightly so, as the Lady Enide was of a rare patient, gentle beauty that captivated all hearts upon mere sight – the bravery of the groom who, after all, had faced a great evil and almost died, and the generosity of Count Waldemar of Laluth, which had gifted such a feast upon them.

Many of them most likely hoped to be invited to Laluth for the winter after the feast, which would have been the best possible thing happening to a starving minstrel.

When they ran out of songs, the third course started with _checonys in cyrip_ – boiled chicken pieces, baked in a sauce made of the stock, wine, currants, minced fresh ginger, vinegar, cinnamon, cloves, pepper and salt. Most of those spices were rare and worth their weight in pure gold – and therefore rarely available even for the rich – but Uther Pendragon had been a connoisseur all his life and had always had the spice cabinet well stocked (and securely locked).

This excellent dish was served with _funges_ – mushrooms cooked in broth and spices – and _makerauns_ , which, to Merlin's surprise, turned out to be a simple dish of noodles with cheese.

After the third course, the guests needed a little pause again, so wine was served and toasts were spoken. Mostly to wish luck and happiness to the newlyweds, but Arthur and his knights, too, were given the one or other toast – and rightly so. They had fought a terrible battle against Cenred and Morgause's undead army and emerged victorious. Even if they had no idea _whom_ they should thank for breaking the foul sorcery of Morgause's, Merlin thought wryly.

While the nobility was distracted, he was overlooking the food-saving work in the kitchens, as per Arthur's orders. Every scrap of food that came back from the festive table was to be scratched together. Those scraps then got sorted and put in simple earthenware pots, to be distributed among the hungry people of the lower town on the next day.

Merlin felt vaguely guilty when he spirited away a generous helping of the chicken dish for his mother. But he knew that – in her modesty – Hunith would always judge the needs of the others greater than those of her own, and he wanted his mother to have at least _one_ good meal, after all the hard time she had gone through. As a penance, he only allowed himself a small bowl of the meat broth with a little bread.

In the meantime all toasts had been spoken in the Great Hall, and the servants began to dish up the dessert board, which consisted of _mock swan with Syllabub_ – a swan-shaped bread, stuffed with a very thick sauce of cream and spiced wine – _waffres_ , meaning crisp wafers with cheese and ginger in the batter, and an elderflower cake known as _Sambocade Cake_ that was made with thick cream, rosewater and dried elderflower petals.

The noble guests were still quite full with the first three courses, so they only picked on the rich desserts which were definitely too heavy, after all that food they had already consumed. The servants exchanged pleased looks across the tables; this meant more for them, and even some for the people in the lower town.

Dame Guinevere had ordered that especially sweets be given to the children of the poor, and while the servants didn't intend to obey her in _everything_ if they could help it, in this point they actually agreed with her. Sweets were good for children.

Most of the plates had already been taken back to the kitchens, and the musicians were beginning to adjust their instruments again under the blanket of multi-voiced conversation filling the Great Hall, when suddenly the noise of a lord argument could be heard from the outside. Somebody clearly tried to gain admittance and Morris, the elderly doorward, was trying to keep them out.

A moment later the wings of the door were tossed open by someone in great hurry and impatience, despite the loud protests of the poor doorkeeper – who got simply wiped aside – and in rode the most unusual couple the walls of Camelot had ever seen.

The man, who rode ahead, clearly a knight of noble birth by his rich attire, was mounted on a mighty warhorse; both horse and rider looked strong and well-fed. The knight, no older than perhaps thirty or thirty-five years, had a hard, pale face, straw-blond hair that was shorn at the jaw line, and steel grey eyes. He was clad entirely in black, from gloves through surcoat to boots and the long cape draped across the rear of his horse. His armour was of the finest steel; upon shield, helmet and breastplate, a dragon set with jewels was blazoned in gold. A great sword in a finely-wrought scabbard hung from his double sword-belt that was decorated with golden appliances, also in the shape of small, winged dragons.

The lady who followed him from some distance rode on a sorry looking mare; a hag so thin that its ribs might be counted. Worn and dusty was the harness, too, and made of hemp. The garments of the lady, once made of the finest silk brocade in deep forest green and golden brown, were now so ragged that in places her fair skin shone whitely through. Her great sheaf of pale golden hair hung over her shoulders, unkempt and unadorned. Her sweet, heart-shaped face was pale and sad, her blue eyes swollen and reddened, as if she had cried very much lately. She had no riding boots, just soft shoes, the thin soles of which were all but worn through.

The strange appearance of the uninvited guests shocked everyone for a moment. Then Sir Ector, acting in his new capacity as the Vice-Regent of Camelot, left the King's side to intercept them before they would ride any deeper into the Great Hall.

"Who are you, Sir Knight, and how do you dare to enter the Hall of the King, uninvited and in such strange company?" he demanded.

"Sir Orilus, the Duke of Lalande I am," the knight answered in a harsh voice, "And I came to call the King's Justice upon this unfaithful wife of mine."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Shocked silence descended upon the Great Hall. Even Merlin, who had remained largely ignorant about the laws of Camelot – unless they had something to do with the pursuing of magic and its practitioners – even he knew that calling the King's Justice upon a noblewoman accused of infidelity could easily lead to her being burned on the stake. Unless she could prove her innocence beyond any doubt, which was a near-impossible thing to do, for how could one prove _not_ having committed that particular sin?

Or unless she found a champion who would break his lance with her accuser, in the defence of her honour. Which, in Merlin's opinion, was a very stupid solution, as it proved nothing beyond the skills of the champion – or the lack thereof. It certainly didn't have anything to do with the lady's guilt or innocence.

As usual, no-one asked Merlin's opinion, though, and he had learned his place in the recent years… well, more or less. Enough for _not_ offering said opinion without being asked – unless it was crucial for Arthur's survival… and even so, it was usually ignored. In this particular case, where the Code of the Knights seemed to be involved, he wisely kept his mouth shut. The convulted illogic of the Code was too old and too warped to allow any sensible arguments.

Therefore, against his better judgement, he chose _not_ to speak up in the defence of the clearly distressed lady. What would the voice of a servant count in King Uther's ears anyway? But he did feel truly sorry for her, as it seemed that her husband had put her through all kinds of hardness anyway.

Fortunately, she seemed to have other defenders in Uther's court; people whose voice would carry more weight in the King's ears than that of a servant. Sir Geraint rose from his place with a thunderous expression and turned to face the newcomer.

"Pray tell me, Sir Orilus, what exactly it that you accuse my sister of is?" he demanded angrily. One could see that there was no love lost between these two lords, and that it was something that had begun quite some time ago.

"She received another knight in my absence, in our tent when we were on our way home," the Duke of Lalande declared, zealous with wounded pride. "She allowed him to kiss her and take her ring. Such shame come upon me! I, who have won for myself a fair name with my good sword and spear, find my honour gone! Have I not overthrown eight of your knights in one joust, o King of Camelot? Yet what good does it me now that my five brought such sorrow upon me?"

Sir Geraint frowned and turned to the lady, apparently his sister, and asked her in a stern voice that was, however, far less harsh than the Duke's.

"Itonje, is it true what your husband says?"

The sweet lady started crying again. "It is true that an uncouth youth entered our tent, uninvited, while my husband was away, hunting. But he was no knight, I swear, only some young fool, dressed in coarse sackcloth and leggings of calfskin to come to his knees; and on his head, he wore a fool's cap. He entered our tent while I was sleeping and my servants were gone to do their chores. He embraced me and kissed me by force, holding me beneath him. I woke up with a great fright and fought him off as best as I could, and struggled, trying to get free, but it was no use! He was too strong! He drew off the ring from my finger, the very ring my husband gave me on the day of our betrothal; and the golden clasp of my girdle he took also!"

Gearing that, Sir Geraint's face darkened even more with anger and his hand sought the hilt of his sword.

"Did he violate you?" he asked. His sister shook her head.

"Nay; he was just smiling down at my ring, which he was holding in his hand, like someone pleased with his success. Though queerly clad, he had not the face of one who sought to do harm. Still, with both my servants and my husband out of my reach, I _was_ frightened greatly. I thought that he must be a simpleton and believed it would be best to humour him. So I offered him the wine and the venison pies that my servants had prepared for my husband and me to be eaten for lunch."

"Did he accept?" asked Sir Geraint with a frown.

His sister nodded, tears still flowing freely down her gentle face.

"Indeed, he ate and drank with relish; he must have been hungered with his long riding. I tried to make him give me back my ring and clasp, warning him that if my husband returned, he would be so angered that he'd ride after him and kill him. But he did not listen to me; said he had no fear of my husband. Then he kissed me again, mounted that ugly old steed of his and rode away, taking my ring and clasp with him and leaving me behind in a state of great distress and disarray."

"What happened when your husband returned?" asked Sir Geraint, giving his brother-in-law, who tried to say something, a warning look.

"He was angered when he saw the horse tracks before the tent," explained the Lady Itonje, crying. "He would not believe me, that I had no fault in all that happened, withdrawing his companionship and love. He found me to follow him in the same torn dress he had found me, riding the poorest horse with a broken saddle and common cords for reigns, to publicly display my disgrace, until we would find the youth and he could kill him before my eyes."

With that, she broke down in tears completely. Clearly, the anguish of her husband and the fact that he would not believe her distressed her even more than her own disgrace. She must have loved the Haughty Knight very much.

Sir Geraint shook his head angrily and took off his cloak to cover her with it, although that was a slight violation of the rules. But she refused to accept it.

"Nay, brother," she said with wounded dignity, albeit through tears. "You know that I may not accept any service until my honour is restored or my judgement spoken by the King; least of all from my own family. That is the Code of the Knights, by which you have lived all your life – I shan't have you violate it on my behalf."

Now the Lady Cunneware, who had been listening to the whole sorry tale with a grim face, rose, too, and joined her husband, taking off her own cape of heavy silk and draping it over the Lady Itonje's shoulders.

"The Code of the Knights may forbid my husband to come to your aid," she said sharply. "Fortunately, I'm just a woman and thus not bound by such arcane rules. And as I'm family as well, I shall not tolerate the way my brother is treating you."

Merlin's eyes widened in surprise. The Lady Cunneware was the sister of the Haughty Knight? Gwaine had been right – the strangest things kept happening in Camelot. Of course, he had figured out the rest of the tale already, having listened to Lancelot's account on Percival's adventures, but he was wondering how this entanglement could be resolved in the end. According to the laws of Camelot, the husband, especially if he was a nobleman and a knight, did not have to bring any proof for his accusations. It was up to the wife to prove her innocence… if she could.

"Stay out of this, my lady," Sir Ector warned the Lady Cunneware, "least you wish to be punished for breaking the law. Your brother has called for the King's Justice upon his wife; the King shall speak his judgement in due time. Until then, no-one is allowed to aid the Lady Itonje. Not even you."

Cunneware's eyes flashed defiantly. "Try to block my way only if you are prepared to bear the consequences, Vice-Regent!" she hissed. Clearly, her temper was every bit as formidable as her brother's.

"Silence!" Uther thundered from the upper end of the Great Hall. "Sir Orilus, even though he interrupted our feast rudely, is well within his rights to call for the King's Justice; and justice will be had by all tomorrow. Until then, I want these horses removed from my banquet hall, where they have no business to be. In the morning, both sides will be heard, the evidence viewed and judgement spoken. Prince Arthur, who has accepted the Sceptre of Camelot, will see into it."

"I will, sire," promised Arthur, trying to hide his unhappiness; he, too, had realized that this unfortunate case might put the newly founded Brotherhood of the Round Table to serious test.

"Good," Uther clapped his gloved hands. "Let the feast continue, then."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
"So, what do you think Arthur will decide tomorrow?" asked Gwaine from Sir Leon after the feast was over. "He surely won't send that poor lady to her death; especially as this is, strictly seen, Percival's fault."

"More that of his mother," muttered Sir Leon. "Had she not raised her son as an ignorant simpleton, none of this would have happened."

"She meant no harm!" Percival defended his mother. "She just didn't want to lose me, like she'd lost my father and my brothers. But perhaps I can undo the wrong I've caused when I come forth tomorrow and admit that all was, in truth, my fault?"

"That would not help the case of the Lady Itonje much," sighed Sir Leon. "Once the accusations have been spoken, they cannot be withdrawn, and judgement must run its circle."

"What does that, exactly, mean?" asked Elyan. "How could the Lady Itonje prove her innocence? It seems hardly possible to me, as there were no witnesses, and her husband appears hell-bent to see her punished. Even though his own sister does not agree with him. Why is he so obsessed anyway?"

"Sir Orilus is but the Duke of a small province," explained Sir Leon. "The father of the Lady Itonje, though not a King by title, is one of the most powerful lords of the realm. When they married, it was considered way below her rank; and her father was _not_ pleased."

"Why not?" asked Elyan with a frown. "Has Sir Geraint not married a lady of the same family? Lady Cunneware is the sister of Sir Orilus, or have I misunderstood something?"

"You have not," said Sir Leon. "But it's different for sons and daughters. A lady is not supposed to marry below her rank, as it is always the husband's position that counts."

"That's plain stupid," declared Gwaine forcefully. Sir Leon shrugged.

"Perhaps so. But such has been the custom in Camelot for many hundreds of years and Prince Arthur won't be able to change it within the night."

"So, what can we expect to happen?" asked Elyan.

"As the Lady Itonje won't likely to be able to bring any proof of her innocence, her only hope to escape the pyre would be to find a champion who would defend her honour," explained Sir Leon.

"I'll do it," decided Percival. "It was my folly that brought her into this need; it's my duty to save her."

"You might want to reconsider that," warned him Sir Leon. "Sir Orilus is one of the most feared champions with both lance and sword. He was not just bragging when he said he had overthrown eight knights of Camelot in a single joust. I was there; I saw it happen. True, this was before Prince Arthur would become our champion, but he is a mighty warrior still. You could be slain, and the Lady Itonje would still burn."

Elyan shook his head. "I cannot imagine Arthur sending that poor lady to burn on the stake, just because of the jealous fit of her husband."

"He might not like it," replied Sir Leon grimly, "but he might not have any other choice. His hands are bound by the law."

"Then the law is wrong," said Elyan, his eyes dark with anger.

"Perhaps; perhaps not," answered Sir Leon. "But whatever we might think about it, it won't be changed by tomorrow, I fear."

"Then I have no choice," said Percival. "I must fight the Haughty Knight."

"By our Code, you must," agreed Sir Leon. "And as you're untrained in such combats yet, I fear that you may lose; and Camelot will miss your strength greatly."

"This is so wrong, on so many levels that I can't even begin to count," commented Gwaine angrily. "Here we are, trying to defend the realm, savaged by a vengeful sorceress; we need every sword to do so, and now we'll have to risk one of us, just because the wounded pride of some self-important nobleman?"

Sir Leon shrugged. "I don't like it, either. But changes are slow to come; until then, we must do what we must do."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Several corridors away, Merlin was having a very similar argument with a very distraught Prince Regent.

"Arthur, you can't sentence that poor lady to death!" he argued. "We both know it was Percival's fault; and that Sir Orilus is an ass who doesn't deserve his wife. You must free her!"

"I cannot!" replied Arthur, his frustration obvious. "It's the _law_ , Merlin, I'm sure you've heard of that concept before?"

"You're the Prince Regent now," pointed out Merlin with infuriating logic. "If the law is wrong, you can change it, can't you?"

"Not in a single night, I cannot!" Arthur snapped. "Certainly not without discussing it with the Council and most definitely not without my father's consent; he's still the King. And he won't let me throw centuries-old traditions out of the window, just to save _one_ person. Even if that person is the daughter of one of his staunchest supporters."

"So instead you're going to give in to that big oaf and turn the Lord of Ester-Gales against Camelot by sending his innocent daughter to burn on the sake," said Merlin sharply, his righteous anger causing the magic inside him to well up and burn in his eyes like molten gold.

Arthur took a step backward involuntarily, and that saddened Merlin beyond measure. He never wanted Arthur to _fear_ him.

"There's nothing _I can_ do," said Arthur slowly. "But perhaps _you_ can do something."

Merlin stared at him in shock. "You want me to use _magic_? Before the eyes of your father, who certainly won't miss this spectacle, and everyone in Camelot? Why don't you have me beheaded right away and be done with it?"

"Idiot," said Arthur fondly, and for a moment it was _almost_ like in old times between them. "I didn't mean you should do anything _spectacular_. But if Percival is to fight Sir Orilus, he'd need some subtle help. Some small, _sneaky_ help, which, I'm sure, you're quite capable of."

Merlin didn't answer at once. But after a while a truly wicked smile started to blossom all over his thin face.

"I think I know what you mean," he said. "I shall see what I can do."


	17. The King's Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In describing the trial by combat, I followed the structure as given in Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott. All similarities are fully intended, despite the vastly different situation.
> 
> In medieval terms, the second hour of the day would be 8am, the third hour 9 am and so on.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 17 – THE KING’S JUSTICE**

In the next morning, the day on which the die was to be cast for the life or death of poor Lady Itonje dawned red over Camelot, promising a strong wind later on. The townspeople, somewhat strengthened by the leftovers from the wedding feast, headed early for the tiltyard of the caste with great expectation. It was not a frequent occasion that they would get to see a trial by combat, and as very few of them did actually know who the lady in need of a champion would be, they were mostly looking forward to the entertainment. Uther’s practice of having people – mostly magic users, but also the one or other petty criminal – burned at the stake with some frequency had made his subjects less sensitive towards such things.

Hunith, however, who had come at William’s insistence – the young man wanted to see such a combat with his own eyes, as he had only impersonated Prince Arthur in the non-fighting moments of that memorable tournament a couple of years ago – saw things a little differently.

“I cannot understand these people,” she said to William in shocked bewilderment. “Were war and famine not bad enough? Have there not been enough deaths in the recent years? Do they truly have the desire to look upon even more blood and death? To see brave men falling by each other’s hand, or a gentle lady burned to her death on the pyre, for a sin she might not even have committed?”

William shrugged, not truly sharing her concerns.

“People have always liked to watch such spectacles,” he said. “They go to hangings, too; and event he children like to throw vile things at people sentenced to a time in the stocks.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” replied Hunith sadly, knowing that Merlin had had his fair share of the stocks, too.

“Perhaps not,” William allowed. “But that is the nature of men, and we shan’t be able to change it any time soon, I’m afraid.”

Indeed, there was already quite the crowd gathering in front of the Castle gates, waiting to witness the procession, while still greater numbers had already surrounded the tiltyard behind the Castle. The tiltyard was a fairly large piece of level ground, used as the training ground of the Knights of Camelot, who willingly invited spectators to witness their skill with sword or lance. Therefore it was palisaded around and supplied with galleries and benches for the use of said spectators.

On this particular day, the galleries were already filled with the noble visitors who had come to Sir Erec and Lady Enide’s wedding. The young knight himself had risen early from his wedding bed, together with his new wife, as the closest kin of the poor Lady Itonje. Enide sat with her sister-in-law, the Lady Cunneware, who was clad in black entirely, but the blackness of her clothes was nothing compared with the cloud of black anger almost visibly surrounding her.

“I pray to any deity that may listen to send a champion who would teach that idiot brother of mine a hard lesson,” she said to Enide. “Somebody ought to bloody that high-held nose of his properly.”

Enide didn’t answer, just cast a frightened look at the west end of the tiltyard. There, opposite the throne erected for the King (or in this case for the Prince Regent) at the other end of the lists, was a high pile of seasoned wood, the pieces so arranged around a stake, driven into the ground deeply, that it would have a space for the victim destined to burn there to enter the fatal circle. There she would be chained to the stake by the fetters that hung ready for that purpose.

Enide shuddered and turned away. She wished she could have stayed away from this horrible event, but she could not. She was _family_ , not just the wife of a Knight of Camelot.

Around the pile stood four burly men, one at each corner of it, bare-armed and bare-chested, but wearing masks of black wool to hide their faces. Only the glint of their eyes could be seen through the holes in the coarse fabric. They were silent and did not stir, except now and then, under the watchful eye of a huge bear of a man – their chief – to shift and replace the ready fuel. They did not even look at the crowd, waiting with callous indifference to carry out their horrible duty. 

The executioner of Camelot and his helpers were well-used to death brought by their own hands. King Uther had kept them well in practice in the last twenty-some years.

The constant murmur of the crowd was silenced by the hour bell of the Castle. One by one, the deep, reverberating sounds fell on the ear in slow success, leaving enough space for each one to die away in a distant echo before the next one would fall. It was merely the second hour of the day, but the hour bell’s two long sounds lasted for several moments. They chilled with awe the hearts of the assembled crowd, whose eyes now turned to the Castle gates, expecting the approach of the Prince Regent, the champion and the accused lady.

Finally, the gates opened and out rode Sir Leon de Gaunes, the First Knight of Camelot, bearing the great scarlet standard of the Pendragons with the gold dragon emblazoned upon it. He was preceded by six heralds with trumpets and followed by the Knights of the Round Table, riding two and two, with Gwaine and Elyan being the first ones and the Prince Regent himself, mounted on a stately horse, coming last.

Behind him rode Sir Orilus in his shining armour but without his lance, shield and sword, which were borne by two esquires behind him. His lean, hard face, though partially hidden by the open visor of his helmet, showed stubborn rage and pride – and not the least sign of regret. He was flanked by Sir Tristan of Cornwall and his friend, Sir Dinadan, who had reluctantly agreed to be the aides of the champion, as the Code of Knights demanded.

They were followed by a long train of esquires and pages, all wearing the colours of Camelot, all preparing to become knights one day. After these youths came a guard of warders on foot, led by Master Gregory, clad in sable livery, surrounding the accused, who was moving slowly but steadily towards her fate.

She had been stripped of her fine – albeit quite ruined – clothes and given a drab grey kirtle of coarse homespun wool and an unadorned undershift of rough linen instead. Her great wealth of pale golden hair fell over her shoulders, unplaited but neatly combed (Merlin suspected Gwen’s hand in that). Even in such a desperate situation, she seemed to be concerned about a dignified appearance. There were dark smudges under her reddened eyes, speaking of a sleepless night, but she bore such a serene expression of both braveness and resignation that people’s hearts went out to her.

A long line of Castle servants and men-at-arms followed the guard, in a less ordered fashion but in grim silence. This slow procession moved up the lane to the tiltyard and, entering the lists, marched once around them, from the east to the west and, upon completing the circle, came to a halt. There was a slight disarray while the Prince Regent and his knights – save for the champion and his aides – dismounted from their horses, which then were taken from the lists by the esquires.

The poor Lady Itonje was escorted to an ominous-looking black chair, placed near the pile. Upon her first glance at that terrible spot, prepared for a death that was dismaying for the mind and excruciatingly painful for the body, she became stark white and closed her eyes – but only for a moment. After that fleeting moment of weakness, she opened her eyes again and stared at the pile with a long, steady look, as if she wanted to make herself familiar with it – and with the thought that her young life might end there, soon.

Then she slowly turned her head away from that frightening sight and looked at her husband; the very man who was hell-bent to make her burn there.

To everyone’s amazement, there was no accusation in that look; only sadness and love.

Meanwhile, Arthur Pendragon, the Prince Regent of Camelot, had assumed his throne. His knights were placed around and behind him, each in his due rank, with Sir Ector of the Marshes on his right and Sir Leon on his left. Merlin, as usual, was standing among the Castle servants, together with Gaius and Gwen, who had not (yet) the right to sit on the gallery with the noble ladies.

When everyone was seated, a loud, melodious flourish of trumpets could be heard, and a herald announced that the court was seated for judgement.

Sir Tristan of Cornwall, acting as the champion’s aide, stepped forward and turned to the throne.

“My Lord Prince, Sir Ector,” he began, his voice carrying to the farthest edge of the tiltyard, “here stands the good knight Sir Orilus of Lalande, to ask for the King’s Justice against his lawfully wedded wife, Lady Itonje of Ester-Gales, whom he accuses of unfaithfulness by dallying with an unknown knight in his absence. As Lady Itonje insists on her innocence, a trial by combat has been ordered, to show whether she has deserved the doom passed upon her by the Laws of Camelot, condemning her to die in the cleansing fire for her sin, or to leave unharmed, with her innocence proven. Here, I say, the Duke of Lalande stands, to fight the Combat of Justice for his case.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to Arthur, who seemed less than comfortable in his position as the judge. Condemning bandits and footpads to a well-deserved death was one thing. Sending a gentle and noble lady – and the sister of two of his valued knights, at that – to the pyre innocently, just because her husband was an incorrigible fool, was an entirely different one.

Fortunately for him, Sir Ector came to his aid; as it was his right and his duty as the Vice-Regent.

“Has Sir Orilus sworn an oath that this quarrel of his is just and honourable?” asked the Lord of the Marshes with narrowed eyes. Sir Tristan nodded.

“He did, my lord; as it has been recorded and witnessed in the library, in Master Geoffrey’s presence, who has the writ in his keeping. So has the Lady Itonje’s oath persisting on her innocence.”

“Very well,” said Sir Ector coldly, “then the issue is out of our hands. Let the trial by combat decide about sin or innocence. Herald, do your duty!”

The trumpets flourished again, and the herald – no lesser person than Sir Kay, the Vice-Regent’s own son, as this counted as a very serious issue – stepped forward to make the official proclamation.

“Hearken, hearken!” he cried in a ringing voice. “Here stands the good knight, Sir Orilus of Lalande, ready to battle with any knight of noble blood who would challenge his accusation against his wife, Lady Itonje of Ester-Gales. To such a champion, Arthur Pendragon, Prince Regent of Camelot, allows a fair field and equal partition of sun and wind, and whatever else appertains a fair combat.”

The trumpets sounded again; then dead silence fell upon the tiltyard.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the meantime, Percival was struggling with the unexpectedly difficult task of putting on his full armour, which he did for the first time in his life. Usually, he only wore a mail shirt and counted on his greater strength to best his opponent. The Trial of Justice, however, had the same binding rules as any tournament, and so he had to compromise, whether he liked it or not.

The page Ivanneth, sent by the Dame Guinevere to help him – and mightily unpleased to be ordered around by her – _was_ of some help. At least he knew which piece of armour was supposed to go where. But even for a trained page like him, it was too complicated a task to master alone; especially if the knight himself clearly had no idea what he was doing. Therefore, putting on the armour took more time than expected, and Sir Orilus remained on the tiltyard unchallenged, much to the disappointment of the spectators… and to the growing concern of those who wanted the Lady Itonje saved.

Which was just about everybody, except her own husband.

“What’s taking so long?” murmured Gwen anxiously. “I sent Ivanneth to help Percival getting ready for combat; he should already be here!”

“It is a difficult task, even for a trained page,” reminded her Merlin, knowing from first-hard experience just _how_ difficult it could be to help a knight into his armour. “I would go and help them, but Arthur ordered me to stay here until the trial is over.

Which was as close to the truth as he could tell anyone still not aware of his true powers.

“I could go,” Gwen began uncertainly, but Merlin interrupted her.

“No, you cannot. You are the chatelaine of the Castle now and the sister of a knight; you can no longer afford to perform such lowly duties. Besides, Percival will need an esquire to carry his weapons, and _that_ can’t be you.”

“But he does not _have_ an esquire,” said Gwen. “He always refused to be served like that, saying tat he can take care of himself well enough.”

“This time, he does not have the choice,” replied Merlin grimly and quickly searched the crowd for the right person. When he spotted William, standing next to his own mother, his face lit up in delight. “And I think I just found the right esquire for him. They’ll be the perfect match!”

Gwen followed the direction of his look – and shook her head.

“He is not nobly born. You know the Code; only the sons of noblemen can become pages or esquires – or knights, after their training is finished. That is why Arthur had to gift some minor lands upon Elyan, after he’d accepted him as one of his knights. Even if those are barren lands and therefore useless.”

Merlin shrugged. “William has already impersonated Arthur once and fooled everyone. He will do; besides, nobody knows him here and cannot tell that we’re cheating.”

And with that, he began to make his way through the crowd to speak with his friend.

Meanwhile, impatience began to spread among the spectators, especially those sitting on the galleries, seeing that nothing was happening. Sir Ector knew how dangerous that was – the people could turn against Lady Itonje, just because they felt they’d been robbed of their entertainment.

“No champion appears for the appellant,” he said with a frown and waved his son closer to him. “Go, herald, and ask her if she expects anyone to fight for her case.”

“Percival _will_ come,” murmured Arthur, after Sir Kay had left, heading to the Lady Itonje’s black chair. “I don’t know what keeps him so long, but he _will_ come. He might be of a simple mind, but he is an honourable knight who keeps his promises.”

“For the lady’s sake, I hope you are right,” answered Sir Ector in an equally low voice. “But the rules of the trial demand that we ask this question when a champion fails to show up.”

As ordered by his father, Sir Kai went to the Lady Enide’s chair to ask the required question.

“My lady,” he said with more respect than appellant were usually given, clearly showing that he, too, was on her side, “the Vice-Regent asks you if you indeed have a champion who would fight this day on your behalf, or if you do yield yourself as one justly condemned to a deserved doom?”

The gentle lady looked up to him with tear-filled eyes, yet her voice was amazingly steady.

“Tell the Vice-Regent,” she said proudly, “that I maintain my innocence and shall not yield myself as justly condemned, for I did nothing wrong and admitting a sin I have not committed would be false. Therefore I shall demand every delay the Combat of Justice permits, in the hope that among all these noble knights of Camelot may be found one who is willing to break his lance for a just case.”

Impressed by her bravery, Sir Kay returned to his father to give him the lady’s answer.

“So be it then,” said Sir Erec. “Until the shadows cast from the west to eastward, we shall wait to see if a champion will appear for the unfortunate lady. However, once the day has passed that far, I fear we cannot do anything to save her, and she ill have to prepare for her death. Such are the Laws of Camelot.”

Arthur shook his head in helpless anger.

“Where the hell is Percival?” he muttered.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Until the third hour of the day had the judges waited in the lists, hoping in vain for the appearance of a champion. By that hour, impatience spread among the spectators, and a steady murmur arose that no-one would appear in due time, and that the Prince Regent should declare the pledge of the Lady Itonje forfeited.

“No,” said Arhur determinedly when Sir Orilus sent an esquire to him with that particular request. “She has three more hours to find a champion. We shall give her those three hours, every single moment of them, regardless of the circumstances. This is her right… and her only hope to be saved.”

“Still no word from Sir Percival?” asked Sir Erec after the esquire had left to bring his master the Prince’s answer.

Arthur shook his head. “I cannot imagine what’s keeping him.”

“Nothing, it seems,” said Gwaine in relief. “At least not any longer.”

At the same time, al heads turned towards the far end of the tiltyard, and a hundred voices arose, murmuring in excitement: “A champion! A champion!”

And indeed, a knight appeared on the plain, urging his horse towards the lists. He was big and burly, looking even bulkier in his heavy armour of fine steel, but his huge steed carried him with ease. Upon his shield, helmet and breastplate, the ancient crest of the Angevins was emblazoned; the one last borne by Sir Gahmuret his late father: a plain purpure shield with a semy of crosses.

Behind him rode his esquire: a wiry young man with dirty blond hair that reached till his jawline and a round, open, honest face that seemed more that of a simple farmer than of some nobly born youngster. There was some surprised murmur among the spectators when many of them recognized the man whom they had once known as Sir William of Daria but who was obviously neither a knight nor a nobleman, after all.

As the rules of the combat demanded, Sir Kay rode up to the knight, asking him about his name, his rank and his purpose, and he answered readily and boldly.

“Sir Percival the Angevin I am, son of the good knight, Sir Gahmuret, and his lady wife, the Princess Herzeloide. I came to sustain with lance and sword the just and lawful quarrel of this noble lady, Itonje of Ester-Gales. To prove the accusations spoken against her to be false and to defy Sir Orilus of Lalande as a liar. This I shall prove in the field with my strength and skill against his.”

The knights of Camelot listened to their friend and comrade’s speech with open-mouthed awe. No-one had ever heard Percival speak this much – or use any words longer than two syllables.

“Now we know what’s taken him so long,” muttered Elyan, his eyes still glassed over a bit. “Learning _that_ must have been pure torture for him.”

“Be quiet!” hissed Sir Bors, who was sitting next to him. “This is the proper way to address the court; otherwise he wouldn’t be allowed to fight the Combat of Justice.”

“But… but this is _Percival_!” protested Elyan, still in stunned disbelief. “Where has he learned such stilted phrases? This is more than he usually speaks in six months!”

Sir Bors carefully avoided looking at him, lest he would burst into helpless laughter. “Leon practiced with him last night.”

Percival, in the meantime, rode up to the Prince’s throne and asked as he was meant to, “Does the Prince Regent allow me the combat?”

“I cannot deny that which you’ve challenged,” replied Arthur in obvious relief. “Provided that the lady accepts you as her champion.”

“I’ll ask her then,” said Percival, falling out of his role for the moment.

He turned around his horse and rode back to the other end of the lists where the Lady Itonje’s chair stood. Reaching her side, he looked down into her face and found it, to his regret, pale and tear-streaked. He dismounted and took the helmet from his head to show his respect.

“Lady,” he said, “I regret the sorrow that I have brought to you. I swear that it was done out of mere ignorance and not out of ill will. May I serve you in the Combat of Justice, to restore your good name and to undo the wrong that I have unwittingly caused?”

“Sir Knight,” responded Itonje with quiet dignity, “much have you taken from me: my ring and my happiness. It is only proper that I accept you as my champion, so that you can atone for your ill deeds. But be warned: my lord is mighty, and he can easily overcome six men by himself… indeed, has done so before,” her tears started to run down her face again. “Ah, greatly is he changed; once he was kind who is now so cruel to me,” she added mournfully.

At this moment the steed of Sir Orilus neighed, and the Duke, turning, saw his wife conversing with a strange knight. Swinging his horse around he rode quickly toward him with his lance raised. Sir Kay and the other heralds tried to stop him, but they were unarmed, and he simply swept them aside in his rage.

Lady Itonje covered in terror as her lord approached, as if fearing for her life – or for that of her newly won champion. Percival, however, swung back into the saddle again and rode swiftly to meet the Duke, his helmet lying on the ground, forgotten. He had barely enough time to raise his shield to his defence against the strong blows of Sir Orilus. He couldn’t even pick up his own lance in time.

Sir Leon shook his head in concern.

“This doesn’t look good,” he muttered. Arthur nodded grimly, trying to find Merlin in the crowd. Where was that useless servant… Dragonlord… whatever?

To his surprise, he found Merlin standing next to William of Daria (or whatever the false knight’s name truly was) at the far end of the lists. From this distance Arthur could not seeMerlin’s face very well, but he _could_ see the flash of gold in his eyes.

In the next moment the lance of Sir Orilus splintered by the impact on Percival’s shield, and the Duke swayed in the saddle due to the loss of balance. The Lady Itonje cried out in distress, trembling in fear for her lord, whom she loved dearly, even though he had so cruelly shamed her; but also for her champion, who alone stood between her and the pyre.

Standing next to Percival’s esquire, Merlin grinned in satisfaction.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Sir Kay and his fellow heralds finally caught up with the contrahents and chastised the Duke sternly for disregarding the rules. Both knights were ordered to assume formal positions at the opposite ends of the lists; William came running with Percival’s helmet, with the knight accepted gratefully, donned it and closed his visor. Sir Orilus did the same.

Sir Kay then, seeing each champion in his place, raised his voice, repeating thrice: “Fight for justice, good knights!” After the third cry, he withdrew to one side of the lists, proclaiming again that no-one should interfere with or disturb the fair field of combat, be it by word, by cry or by action, lest their lives would be forfeit.

Prince Arthur then, who was holding in his hand the symbolic prize of the combat – the riding glove of the Lady Itonje, richly embroidered on soft kid leather – threw it into the lists, pronouncing the fatal words: “Let it begin!”

The trumpets sounded, and the knights charged each other in full career. The blows of Sir Orilus were clearly aiming at Percival’s throat, hoping to hit him between the edge of the helmet and the iron collar of his breastplate – and succeeded. Yet Percival just shook himself like a big hound after having fallen into a snow-filled moat and remained in the saddle. His lance hit the Duke’s shield with the force of a ram and Orilus swayed in the saddle again; but not badly enough to be unhorsed.

“Sir Percival is strong, but he has no fighting grace at all,” said Sir Ector disapprovingly.

Elyan glanced up to the Vice-Regent with a crooked grin. “Neither has a sledgehammer, my lord; but in the end it does conquer both iron and steel.”

Two more lances were broken on both sides, yet neither knight could gain any advantage on the other one. It was decided then to give them spears instead, which would require a show of different skills. Soon the lists were echoing with the sound of clashing spears; the horses snorted and the combatants breathed heavily, and the blows upon the shields caused the sparks to fly.

Percival managed to land a stroke upon the Duke’s helmet, which got split cleanly in two and dropped to the ground… _too_ cleanly, considered that he hadn’t actually hit his opponent hard enough. Arthur did his best _not_ to look in Merlin’s direction. What he’d encouraged his manservant to do – using magic in plain sight – could have easily gotten Merlin accompany the lady on the pyre. It was better to pretend that nothing happened. Nothing at all.

The loss of his helmet did not slow down the Duke a bit. He gave his well-trained charger the spores and practically rode down Percival’s horse that, while sturdy and exceptionally strong, was less nimble under the heavy weight of its rider. Percival went down with his horse but, strangely enough, Sir Orilus reeled in the saddle as well, lost his stirrups and dropped to the ground like a felled tree.

Again, Arthur determinedly refused to look in Merlin’s direction. Gwaine, however, must have noticed something, for he was grinning like a loon. _That_ didn’t worry Arthur, though. Gwaine was a friend of Merlin’s and would never tell anyone.

Percival, extricating himself from his fallen horse, was on his feet at once, but he didn’t seek to mend his fortune with his sword. Instead, he grabbed Sir Orilus about the waist and threw him to the ground backwards, with such force that the Duke hit his head and remained lying on his back, dazzled. Percival placed his foot on the Duke’s chest and the point of his sword to his throat, ordering him to yield or die on the spot.

Hearing this, the Lady Itonje cried out in terror and begged her champion not to slay her unworthy husband. How could she still be more worried about him than about herself surprised everyone, as Sir Orilus made very few friends wherever he might appear; but, as Sir Geraint commented somewhat sourly, no-one could choose whom they fell in love with.

Now that the fighting seemed to be over, Prince Arthur rose from his throne to announce the official outcome of the combat.

“Manfully and rightfully has Sir Percival the Angevin done his duty in the Combat of Justice,” he said. “I therefore pronounce the Lady Itonje free and guiltless. The fate and the arms of the vanquished knight are at the will of the victor.”

“I shall spare his life,” said Percival, “If he admits that he was wrong and asks his lady for forgiveness. His arms, though, I shall take for myself as it is my right.”

“Sir Knight,” protested Sir Orilus, “I will give you all the riches you want, but do not demand from me to forgive Itonje; for she has dishonoured me greatly.”

“Shame on you!” replied Percival angrily. “It was me, in my foolish ignorance, who rode rudely into her tent and took her clasp and ring; and I meant no harm when I kissed her, believing that I would follow the teachings of my mother. She was innocent in whatever wrong your wounded pride has accused her.”

“You!” cried the Duke. “It was you I sought to punish then?”

“You have wronged your lady greatly, sir,” said Percival indignantly. “It would have been better had you trusted her. You can only hope _she_ would forgive you __; for were I in her stead, I certainly would not.”

By then, the handmaidens of the Lady Cunneware had come down in great hurry to take care of poor, much-suffered Itonje. Although she wanted to reconcile with her lord badly, that had to wait. She needed to be bathed and groomed and clad inf resh clothes, ere the fate of her husband and her marriage would be decided.

For the Combat of Justice was one of the very few things that entitled a wrongly accused wife – _or_ her family, assuming that they were of the nobility – to get rid of her unworthy husband by dissolving the marriage. And had it been up to Sir Geraint or Sir Erec, or even to the Lady Cunneware, the marriage of Orilus and Itonje would have been nullified on the spot. However, it was clear to everyone that Itonje would not want _that_ , so the final decision promised to be preceded by a heated debate.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Around the ninth hour of the day, when the noble guests of Camelot had already had their midday meal and were resting on a full stomach, and the townspeople were also quite content, both with the scrapings from yesterday’s wedding feast and with today’s entertainment on the tiltyard, Merlin unexpectedly found himself in the company of the Lady Vivian. It surprised him a great deal that the previously so haughty and demanding daughter of King Olaf would seek out _his_ company, instead of pursuing Arthur or spending her time with the other ladies, but he did not truly mind. It was not her fault that she’d been bewitched by a sorcerer to fall in undying love with Arthur, and it grieved him that he could not help her.

“An interesting combat it was this morning,” she said lightly, leaning against the stonework of the rampart casually. 

Merlin nodded, still wary about her true intentions.

“Sir Orilus is a skilled warrior,” he offered vaguely.

“He is much more than that,” replied the Lady Vivian, with the well-founded opinion of a woman who’d seen more jousting in her young life than many a battle-hardened knight. “He is a _legend_ … or, at least, he used to be one. That is how he’d won the heart of fair Itonje: with his courage and skills, aside from the honeyed words of horrible poetry written by his personal minstrel,” she added with an amused – and very un-ladylike – snort.

“I will take your word for that, my lady,” said Merlin noncommittally, wondering what she might be up to.

“You should,” she said, suddenly very serious again. “Lalande belongs to our realm, and Lord Lahelein, Sir Orilus” brother, is one of Father’s most faithful vassals. I have known the family almost since my birth; which is why Father sent me to represent him at the wedding. Lord Cunneware is an old friend of me.”

That still didn’t explain anything, so Merlin simply nodded in encouragement.

“So I cannot help wondering,” she continued, “how could such a raw and inexperienced knight as Sir Percival, with little to no training in the ways of the tiltyard, beat Sir Orilus so easily.”

Merlin offered her a lopsided grin. “I’m not sure _Percival_ found it so easy,” he said.

“Nonsense,” the Lady Vivian returned sharply. “Under normal circumstances Sir Orilus would have eaten that little upstart for breakfast… if not for all those tiny... _misfortunes_ that kept happening to him during the combat. His lance breaking… his helmet getting cleaved in two… him losing balance and falling from the saddle…”

“Those things happen to the bravest knights, I’m told,” replied Merlin amiably.

“Certainly,” she agreed with a thoughtful nod. “Strangely enough, though, they never happened to Sir Orilus before. I find that… remarkable.”

“In what way, my lady?” Merlin tried very hard _not_ to panic, knowing that not even Arthur would be able to save him, should his careful – well, apparently not careful _enough_ – involvement in Sir Orilus’ defeat come out. 

The Prince Regent couldn’t go against the law; not openly. And he couldn’t afford to leave Camelot. Arthur needed him.

The Lady Vivian looked up to him, her child-like blue eyes suddenly old and knowing. “I know who you truly are, Merlin. The Druids my father had summoned to our castle to free me from the enchantment spoke about you. Oh, not to me _or_ to Father, of course. But I was listening when they thought I was _not_ , and I learned more than they would have been willing to tell me. It pays off if people think you are stupid. But I’m sure you already know _that_.”

“So you know the truth,” Merlin’s thin shoulders slumped in defeat. “What do you intend to do with this knowledge?”

“I need your help,” she answered simply. Merlin shook his head.

“I cannot break the enchantment, lady. I’ve already tried, right after it had been laid upon you and Arthur. It didn’t work.”

She nodded impatiently. “I know. I need to find my true love to break it, or I shall remain like this, wilting away in hopeless love for Arthur, blah, blah, blah. Well, I’m not willing to do that; and neither am I going to waste my whole life in endless search for the right man. If the Druids cannot help me, if _you_ cannot help me, then I’ll find a way myself. But I need your help with that.”

“How could I possibly help you?” asked Merlin in bewilderment.

“I want to learn the use of magic,” she replied without hesitation. “I may not be born to it like you are; like the Druids are. But I can learn all that could be learned about magic. And I want _you_ to teach me.”

“Why me?” asked Merlin. “There are others; older and more experienced ones…”

“But you are the greatest and most powerful of all,” she interrupted. “I want to learn from the best.”

“Lady, in Camelot the use of magic is punished by death,” reminded her Merlin. “And I cannot leave Camelot. I’m _needed_ here.”

“I don’t expect you to come to me right away,” she said. “I’ll give you one year. No more and no less. In a year’s time, we shall meet in an appointed place, and you will teach me everything you can.”

“What if I don’t?” Merlin challenged her.

She gave him an icy glare. “I suggest that you do. You wouldn’t like the consequences otherwise. But to sweeten the ordeal for you, I’m giving you something to look forward to.”

With that, she took Merlin’s face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth sweetly, bewitchingly. Then she turned on her heels, leaving the flabbergasted warlock alone.


	18. And for the Prince, a Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Percival's epic combat and Lancelot's adventures, this part is based on the Arthurian legends. The rest of it is very much my own doing, so it may not match either the legends or the series' canon.
> 
> This is a chapter that wasn't originally planned as a separate unit, but the previous one has already grown long enough, so I split it up. Beta read by the wonderful and generous Linda Hoyland, whom I owe my thanks.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 18 – AND FOR THE PRINCE, A QUEEN**

The court entitled to decide the fate of Sir Orilus and that of his marriage with the Lady Itonje gathered in King Uther's small audience room at the tenth hour of the day. As he had laid the case into the hands of his son and heir, Uther didn't attend himself, but Sir Ector did, and so did Sir Geraint, Sir Erec, Geoffrey of Monmouth and Gaius (who had both been elevated into the rank of the Prince Regent's personal advisors). The ladies Cunneware and Enide had been invited, too, since they were family, either by blood or by marriage, and so had Count Wulfred of Laluth, whose experience and often-proved wisdom could provide valuable insight.

Percival was present, of course, as one who had a deciding vote where the Duke's fate was concerned, aided by Sir Leon to navigate him safely among the pitfalls of courtly life. They sat a little aside from the court, while the Lady Itonje was seated between her sisters-in-law, the ladies Cunneware and Enide.

She looked much better now, wearing a bliaut of royal blue samite, embroidered on the hem, the neckline and the wide sleeves with a floral pattern in gold thread, over a tight-sleeved undergown of raw silk. This attire matched her colouring most flatteringly. Her golden hair had been washed and combed and coiled around her head in a thick braid, interwoven with a string of blue glass beads and covered with a silk veil that fell over her shoulders. She was radiant and beautiful, and few of the lords and ladies present could understand how she could have fallen for a man like Sir Orilus; a man who clearly did _not_ deserve her.

Two of the ranking esquires – both on the verge of knighthood themselves – now led in the Duke, who was clad entirely in unadorned black: a tunic of black linen, a surcoat of the finest black wool, black leather breeches… even his soft, ankle-high house boots were black. All this blackness created a striking contrast with his straw blond hair, shorn at the length of the jawline, and his piercing blue eyes. One had to admit that he _was_ a handsome man in his own, harsh way.

And he wasn't a complete fool, either, it appeared. As much as his jealousy often overwhelmed him – sometimes with dire consequences – he clearly knew what he had in his lady wife and didn't want to lose her. For as soon as he was led in, he went straight to the Lady Itonje, who was waiting eagerly to greet him. He knelt before her and most humbly asked her forgiveness.

"For I was wrong to accuse you of unfaithfulness, and my stubborn pride nearly caused your death," he confessed, his face deathly pale by the mere thought of what might have happened. "I swear by my good name and by the ancient crest of my forefathers that never again shall I doubt you… if only you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

His sweet and gentle lady had tears in her beautiful eyes by then. She slipped down from her chair to her knees to see him directly in the eyes, and putting her arms about his neck, she kissed him tenderly.

"I do forgive you," she said. "But you must not forget what almost happened, just because you doubted me. Death, however painful, I could have endured – yet not the fact that you have turned against me; that you could question my unwavering love for you, even for a short time. Let it not happen again, for I am not sure I would be able to forgive you a second time."

"Never again!" promised Sir Orilus, and it was obvious that he meant it.

"Let's hope he _can_ keep his word this time," muttered Gaius, who knew that jealousy was a strong enough emotion to conquer even the most solemn oath. Sir Ector nodded in agreement.

"Does this court find the oath of Sir Orilus satisfactory and the choice of Lady Itonje to take her husband back acceptable?" he then asked.

The members of the court answered in the positive, one by one. Sir Ector then looked at Percival.

"Does the victor of the Combat of Justice give his consent?" he continued.

"I do," said Percival.

Then he went to the Lady Itonje and knelt also, to ask forgiveness for his foolish act that had caused her so much grief. He returned to Sir Orilus the ring and the clasp he had taken. The Duke placed the ring upon the finger of his wife who received it with a joyous smile.

Then, turning to Percival, she said. "Sir Knight, I was told about your early life and how you have misunderstood the somewhat sparse teaching of your lady mother. Therefore, I forgive you, as you have indeed acted in ignorance. Let this be a lesson for you, though, to learn more about courtly life and the duties of a knight, lest you would bring another unfortunate lady in such terrible danger."

"I will," promised Percival simply, glad that he'd been forgiven and that no great tragedy had come from his ignorance.

And with that, the court was dispersed.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
"What will happen to Sir Orilus now?" asked Merlin from Sir Lucan of Corduel; unlike others who had served Uther for many years, the wine steward was always friendly to the common servants and willingly explained them the bewildering facets of courtly life.

"Nothing, he was answered with a shrug. "His lady wife forgave him and took him back; and Sir Percival accepted his oath to treat the Lady Itonje better in the future. There is little anyone else could do about the whole unfortunate affair."

"So he'll just get away with it," muttered Merlin angrily.

Sir Lucan rolled his eyes. "Yes, he will. So what? His wife is happy, Sir Percival gave his consent – not to mention that he wasn't entirely innocent in the affair himself, though he was driven by ignorance rather than by ill will – so what else do you want? Things have turned out to everyone's satisfaction, haven't they?"

"Somehow I can't imagine that Sir Geraint would be happy with the outcome," commented Merlin grimly.

Sir Lucan shrugged again. "If he's not, he can still challenge Sir Orilus to combat; but I doubt that he would. Sir Geraint is a proud man, but also a wise one. He knows Camelot cannot get involved in a conflict with Lalande on his behalf, for it would mean a conflict with King Olaf, the liege lord of Orilus, with whom our relationship is tense enough as it is. We must avoid any unnecessary fighting if we can. Our numbers have deceased dangerously during the latest war… and the simple folk have suffered enough."

"My brother is right," said Sir Bedivere, who had served as the constable of Camelot and Arthur's cup-bearer, since his stiff leg (a reminder of the hunt of the Questing Beast two years previously) had disabled him for regular knightly duties. "Those of us Prince Arthur can still count on will be needed on the Quest for the Grail; and even some of those will have to stay behind, to protect Camelot in his absence."

"I truly wish Arthur would stay here and leave the search for the Grail to others," muttered Merlin unhappily. "He nearly died once already upon entering the Perilous Lands… the second time he may not be so fortunate."

What he really meant was: _The second time I may not be able to save his hide_ , but he was wiser than to say something like that out loud.

" _I would be_ happier if he stayed behind, too," admitted Sir Kay, joining them on the ramparts, from where the wine steward was overseeing the preparations for tonight's feast; a feast that would consist of the recombined leftovers from the wedding dinner of Sir Erec and Lady Enide. "But we all know he wouldn't. That's not the kind of man he is: to send others into mortal danger while staying behind in safety and comfort."

"Yeah, but the others don't have to rule Camelot," pointed out Merlin.

"Neither does he," reminded him Sir Kay. "His father, whatever his condition might be, is not dead yet; and as long as he lives, Uther _is_ King."

"A King who can no longer rule," said Merlin darkly.

Sir Kay nodded. "My uncle cannot deal with the burden of kingship on a daily basis, that is true. But he has Sir Ector for that. And Arthur has chosen his counsellors well. Between them, they will take good care of Camelot 'til his return."

"Unless Morgana returns first," countered Merlin.

Sir Kay sighed. "I understand your concern, Merlin – not that it would be your place to question Arthur's decisions, even though he lets you get away with a lot. You really need to learn your place before your cheeky attitude lands you in bigger trouble than even Arthur can save you from. Still, as I said, I understand your concern. I even share it, to a certain extent. But consider this: _if_ Lady Morgana finds the strength and the right allies to return so soon, we'll hardly have the means to stop her, with or without Arthur. Our best hope is to find the Grail and heal the land and the people. Only then can we resist Lady Morgana – or any other foe coming up against us."

In that Sir Kay was right, of course, and Merlin could not very well tell them that basically _he_ would be needed in Camelot, should Morgana return. So he – reluctantly – dropped the issue and went on with his daily chores, before either Sir Kay or Sir Lucan might find it necessary to complain to Arthur about his manservant's laziness. Friendly they might be – most of the time anyway – but they were of noble blood and therefore didn't see him as their equal.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
For a feast cobbled together from leftovers, dinner turned out a more than presentable affair. The court nobles all attended, and so did Count Waldemar and Duke Orilus and such knights as were not on patrol. Even King Uther chose to grace the high table with his presence, and thus Merlin had the questionable pleasure of waiting on Arthur again, as Sir Bedivere was drafted to serve the King instead.

To tell the truth, Merlin didn't really mind. Standing behind Arthur's chair, ready to jump to his royal pratliness's every whim, brought back a sense of normalcy he'd sorely missed in recent times. Pretending that everything was as it ought to be was more than worth the aching back and sore feet he would doubtlessly be nursing tomorrow.

The evening ran its normal course, with minstrels singing old ballads and jongleurs performing tricks; with food and wine and toasts and laughter. Everyone seemed to have a grand old time. Even Uther smiled once or twice when Count Waldemar entertained him with embarrassing stories from the childhood of his daughter, much to the discomfort of said daughter.

Sir Erec, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy these stories about his newly wedded wife greatly and encouraged Count Waldemar to tell more of them. Poor Lady Enide was blushing furiously and was about to excuse herself from the King's table, no matter the insult _that_ would mean, when Fate choose to have mercy with her.

In the middle of Count Waldemar's latest anecdote, the heavy doors of the Great Hall were suddenly flung open and a cold wind seemed to blow along the tables. The guests fell in shocked silence and stared in fearful curiosity at the open door. Past experience had taught them that unexpected visitors never meant good news in Camelot.

A tall, willowy woman was now seen approaching. Her garments were sumptuous and of fine cut, made of heavy, dark burgundy red brocade, seamed with gold embroidery on the neckline and the wide sleeves. Over those, she wore a hooded mantle of rich, ink-black velvet blacker adorned with many small turtledoves, wrought of the finest gold that could only be found in the mines of Al-Andalus. Her headdress was tall and shining, and her face was covered with several layers of black veils, with only a narrow slit through which she could see.

The guards inside the _Porta Speciosa_ tried to stop her, but she sent them flying in opposite directions with but a careless gesture of a slender hand. Then she crossed the Great Hall with long, yet unhurried strides 'til she stood right in front of the high table. There she undid the headdress and threw down the veil and fastenings to the stone floor before her.

Had Lancelot been there, he would have recognized her at once; but as he was not, the others just stared at her curiously, admiring her bright green eyes and her very white face. It seemed as if she had not been exposed to the sun and its dangerous radiance to tan her complexion for a great many years.

Before the still shocked court could have recovered from their surprise, she turned to Arthur and spoke to him in a scathing manner.

"Arthur Pendragon, son of King Uther, what you have done here has brought shame to yourself and to every honourable nobleman in Albion. The best knights of all lands would be sitting here in honour, were their honour not now mixed with gall. The Round Table is ruined; falsehood has joined its ranks."

In the shocked silence following her words, only King Uther stirred.

"I told you that allowing commoners to infest the Kings of Camelot was a mistake!" he hissed to his son.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I beg to differ," he said icily; then he turned to the woman. "Who are you and how do you _dare_ to raise such vile accusations against my knights, all of whom have proved their loyalty, over and over again?"

"You were praised above your peers, Arthur Pendragon," she answered, her eyes burning. "But your rising fame is sinking, your swift renown now limps, your high praise is dwindling, your honour has proven false."

"Has it now?" asked Arthur calmly. "And now, pray tell, has that happened? What have I done to inspire an uninvited guest to come in – without a proper greeting, may I add – and hurl abuse towards my person?"

"Because of him!" the woman pointed with an outstretched arm at Percival. "The fame and power of the Round Table are lamed now that Sir Percival has joined its company, though he also bears, as he sits over there, the outward signs of a knight."

"You see, Father?" commented Arthur, his voice dripping with sarcasm. " _Percival_ is the problem. And while he might be guilty of stupidity, from time to time, he is certainly nobly born; more so than most," he sighed in resignation and turned to the knight. "All right, Percival, what have you done _this_ time?"

Percival stared back at him in wide-eyed bewilderment. "Nothing, Sire, I swear…"

"Liar!" the woman interrupted him. You are the one to blame that I deny my proper greeting to Arthur and his retinue. Sir Percival, why don't you speak and tell me why, as the sorrowful fisherman sat there, joyless and comfortless, you did not release him from his sorrows? He showed you his burden of grief. Oh faithless guest! You should have taken pity on his distress."

"What is she talking about?" demanded Arthur. "Percival, you better try to remember. Whatever her quarrel is with you, it appears serious."

But Percival just shook his head helplessly. "I don't know, sire! The only fisherman I met during my lonely journeys in the Perilous Lands was the old lord of an ancient castle, suffering from a wound…"

"Oh, you baited lure!" the woman cried. "You adder's fang! Your host gave you a sword, of which you were never worthy. Your silence there was the sin supreme… Had you but asked at Munsalvaesche – the city of Tabronit in Al-Andalus has riches enough to satisfy all earthly desire, yet they cannot compare with the reward your question would have brought you there."

"I still cannot fathom what are you talking about," said Arthur coldly, "but I shall no longer listen to your slander against Sir Percival the Angevin who, to my best knowledge, never acted dishonourably in his whole life. If you believe you know differently, state your name first; and then bring your proof."

"She won't tell you the truth; not even her name," said Uther darkly. "She is a sorceress, can't you see it? She seeks to seed discord among our knights, to destroy Camelot from within."

"Old fool!" cried the woman. "You want proof? Then ask this worthless excuse of a knight what has he done at Munsalvaesche. Ask your lore-masters about the meaning of the symbols I wear, and you shall understand what you have lost. What _Camelot_ has lost."

She whirled around and glared at Arthur. "And you, fine princeling, should not sit here and idle away your days. Iseldir has warned you, and yet you have not moved. Your time – the time of Camelot – is running out."

"The Grail!" Merlin realized with a jolt. "This is about the Grail!"

The cold green eyes of the woman turned to him. "Congratulations," she said. "At least _one_ person in this big, pretentious castle is still capable of using their brains."

"She wears the sign of the turtledove – the symbol of the Grail," muttered Gaius, but Arthur's ears were sharp enough to pick up his comment.

"You know where the Grail can be found?" he asked the woman.

She gave him a wintry smile. "I might have spent the last decades imprisoned under Dolorous Guard, but I was the Grail Maiden once. Of course, I know… but I shan't tell you. You must find your way alone. I have given you the clues; the rest is up to you. But stop stalling; you shall rue bitterly every day you have already wasted."

With that, she turned into a swarm of black butterflies that fluttered around the Great Hall and escaped through the airing shafts. For a moment, there was eerie silence in the Great Hall, and then pandemonium broke loose.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
"All right, Percival, now we know what we are looking for; tell me what happened at Munsalvaesche," ordered Arthur. After dismissing the court, they had gathered in Uther's audience chamber again: Sir Ector, Count Wulfred, Arthur, Sir Leon, Sir Kay and all the other knights currently in Camelot, Gaius and Master Geoffrey. Forgotten by everyone, Merlin was lurking in a shadowy corner, all ears.

"How did you find the castle in the first place?" asked Master Geoffrey, trying to help the clearly overwhelmed knight to the right track.

Percival shrugged helplessly. "Well, as I said, I was travelling the Perilous Lands on my own, and lost my way in the vast forests there. Luckily, when I was trying to find a way to cross a river, I saw two men in a small boat and cried out to them. One of the men was fishing with a rod and a line. He told me that there was no way to cross the river but that I was welcome to stay the night in his castle."

"Just like that?" asked Sir Kay doubtfully.

Percival nodded. "Yes. I climbed the path to the hill where the castle was supposed to be. At first, I couldn't see anything. I was very angry and cursed the man who'd sent me there. But then the mists were suddenly… well, _turned away_ like a magic curtain, and I saw a wondrous castle indeed, where I was given shelter for the night. The lord of the castle even invited me to dinner, which was very good. They made a great fuss about it, too, bringing in a beautiful golden platter, set with gemstones, in a procession. I wondered what it was all about, with the bleeding lance and the candles and all…"

"But you never asked," said Gaius heavily. It was not a question.

Percival shook his head. "No; my mentor advised me to beware of talking too much in the presence of my betters… and that old lord clearly outranked me."

"Whereas by asking what ailed him might have healed him, and you might have been given the Grail freely," sighed Master Geoffrey.

The others stared at him in shock.

" _What_?" exclaimed Arthur.

"This is an old legend, now nearly forgotten," explained Master Geoffrey. "It is said that Anfortas, the brother of the Fisher King and guardian of the Grail Castle, was grievously wounded by a poisoned spear. The wound would only heal if a visiting knight asks the right question. The bleeding spear that wounded Anfortas is carried in the Grail procession each evening, as Anfortas's suffering can be relieved for a short time by placing the spear in his wound."

"What _is_ the right question, though?" asked Sir Leon.

"To ask what ails Anfortas," replied Master Geoffrey.

All stared at him in surprise.

"That simple?" asked Arthur. "And no-one could be bothered to do so for… how long exactly?"

"At least a hundred years; probably longer," answered Master Geoffrey. "But no, it is not _that_ simple. You see, it's not easy to find the way to the Grail Castle; and once somebody has found it and failed to ask the question, they will forget where it was… as, I am quite sure, Sir Percival has."

Percival nodded glumly.

"I wonder how did this Anfortas manage to stay alive for a hundred or more years; and that with a poisoned wound, too," commented Gwaine.

"The Grail keeps him alive," explained Master Geoffrey.

"Prolonging his suffering until the right person comes and asks the right question," added Gaius grimly. "Then he will be healed and the knight who healed him will become the new guardian of the Grail Castle."

"I'm almost glad I didn't ask," muttered Percival. "Who would want to live in some enchanted castle in the Perilous Lands?"

"Who indeed?" murmured Gaius. "I'm sure Anfortas didn't choose it, either. But that's the thing with destiny. We don't choose it; it chooses _us_."

And his eyes sought out Merlin in his shadowy corner, who just smiled bitterly.

"While this is all very impressive," said Count Waldemar, "I still cannot see how any of it can help us in any way."

"It is always helpful to know what we are looking for and what we may have to face on our Quest," pointed out Arthur.

Sir Ector shook his head in concern. "Are you truly so hell-bent on achieving this Quest yourself and putting your life a risk, my Prince?" he asked. "Your father is in a bad shape; should he succumb to his heavy melancholy while you are away, gallivanting across the Perilous Lands, the consequences would be fatal for Camelot. Besides, if I've understood correctly, it is Sir Percival who is destined to find this Grail… assuming it truly exists."

"He _was_ ," said Arthur grimly. "He failed."

"That doesn't mean he might not get a second chance, should he find the way to the Grail Castle again," said Count Waldemar reasonably.

"That is true," Gaius allowed. "But do we have the time to wait for _that_? Iseldir the Druid gave us a year; many weeks of that frist have already been spent. I'm afraid we cannot afford to waste any more time. We should see the appearance of the sorceress, whoever she may have been, as a serious warning."

"I agree," said Arthur. "Tomorrow, we shall choose the knights that will accompany me on the Quest. I believe we should divide them into several groups, so that we may search in more than just one direction."

"That makes sense," said Sir Leon. "I would gladly accept leadership of one such group, sire."

But Arthur shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sir Leon, but I need you here. You are the most experienced of all my knights; I'll leave the safety of Camelot in your capable hands. I think that your brother, Sir Bors, would be a good choice to lead one group, though."

Sir Leon was clearly disappointed but did not argue. He knew Arthur needed somebody to see to the defences of Camelot; somebody he could trust unconditionally. Had he not been so disappointed that he'd miss out on such an adventure, he'd have been flattered, actually.

"As you wish, sire," he said with a sigh. "I would suggest, then, that Sir Percival should lead one of the other groups. He may have the best chance to find the Grail Castle."

There was general agreement, much to Percival's dismay, who seriously doubted that he'd find the right forest again, never mind the castle itself.

"Let Gwaine lead the way," he argued. "No-one has wandered more across the Perilous Lands than he. If anyone, _he_ will find the Castle."

"I'm afraid I have a different task for Gwaine," replied Arthur.

The knight in question stared at him in surprise. "You do, sire?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes. Word has come that a single knight has conquered Dolorous Guard, beat its lord and his knights in combat and lifted the ancient curse off that place. I want you and a handful of companions of your choice to ride to Dolorous Guard and see how many of those rumours are true."

"And if they are, all of them?" Gwaine grinned.

"Then you must try to win the new lord of the castle as an ally," Arthur was deadly serious. "A knight capable of such deeds single-handedly can be a great asset to the Round Table… or a terrible enemy. See that he becomes a friend, if you can."

Gwaine nodded, already looking forward to his personal adventure. Tasks like these suited him more than the routine of Camelot, which often bored him to death. Arthur knew that, of course, and used his skills accordingly.

"Sire, I'd like to go with you as well," said Elyan, but Arthur shook his head.

"I need you here, too, Sir Elyan – to keep your sister safe. In my absence, people of ill will might try to harm my chosen bride. I need to know that she's protected, for the peace of my mind and my heart."

"Your _bride_ , Arthur?" Sir Ector was so shocked that he forgot to give the Prince Regent the proper title. "Are you out of my mind? By all due respect for Mistress Guinevere – she is a pretty enough girl and possesses many fine qualities, I have no doubt – but she was a mere servant here all her life. She might be your chatelaine now, but in the end she's nothing but a blacksmith's daughter."

"That doesn't matter to me," replied Arthur indignantly.

"Nor to us, I assure you," Count Waldemar came to Sir Ector's rescue hastily. "However, it is your people that concern us."

Arthur stirred uncomfortably. "Well, surely, as the Prince Regent, I can do as I see fit."

"No, sire, you cannot," said Sir Ector gravely. "You must do what is expected of you. You must present yourself in an appropriate manner. The people… _your_ people… would not wish to see their future King with the daughter of a blacksmith. No offence intended," he added, with a gracious inclining of his head in Elyan's direction, who just glared at him darkly."

"This isn't a matter of state!" protested Arthur. "This is a matter of the heart!"

Sir Ector shook his head. "You cannot rule the kingdom with your heart, Arthur. Your father understood that… until recently. And see what being overwhelmed by his feelings has done to him. You must not make the same mistake. You must be strong. You must not let your feelings cloud your judgement. You must rule with your head, like a strong King."

"You mean I must set aside my feelings for Guinevere?" asked Arthur, shocked.

Sir Ector inclined his head in agreement. "I'm afraid so, my lord. The future Queen must be somebody of noble birth. I am really sorry, but that is the way of things."

"Well, then," said Gaius heavily, "it is fortunate that Gwen is _not_ the natural daughter of Tom Blacksmith, isn't it?"

" _What_?" Elyan became ash grey with shock, and everyone else started shouting at once.

"Silence!" Arthur bellowed, thumping on the table with his gloved hand; then, as people calmed down, he turned to Gaius. "What did you say?"

"Gwen's true father is Tauren of Cameliand," replied Gaius flatly.

"The sorcerer who nearly talked Morgana into murdering my father, back when she was still on our side?" Arthur could hardly believe his ears. Gaius nodded.

"Once a landed lord from an old and respected family of House Don, Tauren used to be the court sorcerer of King Royons of Cameliand," he explained. "After the King's death, not wanting to serve Alined, the heir, he began to travel all across the Five Kingdoms. Before the Great Purge, he repeatedly visited Sir Leontes's house. Gwen's mother was a common-born daughter of House Llyr, from one of the Cymrian bastard lines and the trusted tirewoman of Lady Madelyn. Tauren doubtlessly wanted to unite the strength of the two ancient Houses when he seduced Gwenwhyfar. Had she borne him a son, the child might have been born with magic and become a great sorcerer. But she had a daughter, and so Tauren never returned… until two years ago."

" _My_ Guinevere is the daughter of a sorcerer?" Arthur was flabbergasted. "And _you_ … you knew that and never found it necessary to tell me?"

"I've only learned about it recently, sire," answered Gaius placatingly. "In fact, Master Geoffrey and I have only put together the pieces but a couple of weeks ago. Gwen herself hasn't known of this – not until Tauren's return. It is our understanding that he told her the truth then."

"And _she_ didn't see fit to tell me, either," growled Arthur.

"Can you blame her for being afraid, sire?" intervened Sir Leon. "Tom Blacksmith was executed for sorcery – how would have King Uther reacted, had he learned that Gwen's true father was an _actual_ sorcerer?"

Arthur shot him a baleful look. "A sorcerer who used to go in and out of your father's house, apparently."

"That was before magic would have been outlawed in Camelot, sire," replied Sir Leon calmly. "And you should be grateful for that. Whatever else Tauren might have been, he _was_ a nobleman of House Don; and the Mistress Guinevere thus has the blood of both ancient Houses in her veins, even though the Llyr blood comes from a bastard line. That makes her more than suitable to become your Queen."

Sir Ector shook his head. "Uther would never consent to this."

"But he cannot forbid it, either," pointed out Master Geoffrey reasonably. " _If_ the future Queen can prove her true ancestry, that is."

"How would that be possible?" asked Count Waldemar. "The word of a dead sorcerer would hardly suffice."

"There is a way," said Gaius slowly. "A dangerous one, for sure, but it can put an end to all questions and doubts permanently."

Master Geoffrey glared at him in alarm. "You are not speaking about the _Siege Perilous_ , are you? You don't want to make her sit in that cursed seat, do you?"

"I don't _want_ to, no," confirmed Gaius tiredly. "But this is the only way to prove her noble birth beyond doubt – _if_ she is willing to take that risk."

"Yet if Tauren was lying, she'll be dead in the moment she touches the chair," Master Geoffrey reminded him.

"True," Gaius admitted. "This is a decision she has to make alone, out of her own free will. She has to choose the risks she is willing to take."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Arthur. "What is this chair?"

"The _Siege Perilous_ is an ancient heirloom of House Don," explained Gaius. "In the ancient, troubled times it was used to recognize the blood of that House, by means of being fatal to anyone else who dares to sit in it. Certain legends also state that the knight destined to quest for the Grail could survive it, but – unless they are of House Don – I wouldn't advise anyone to try doing so."

"You mean it is an item of powerful magic," said Sir Geraint.

Gaius shrugged. "I would assume so, yes. It has been used during the coronation ceremony of _every_ Pendragon King – _including Uther_ – to prove their justified claim to the throne of Camelot beyond doubt. I don't know if he's planned to have Arthur sit in or not – as he is from House Don on both sides, it might not be of great importance – but if Guinevere survives the _Siege Perilous_ , no-one can _ever_ question her right to become Queen."

" _If_ she survives," emphasized Arthur. "And if Tauren lied, she might die, not of her own fault, just because she loves me. I cannot take that risk."

"By all due respect, sire, it is not _your_ decision to make," said Count Waldemar coldly. "If you want to save her life more than you want her to become your Queen, you can always let her go without ever mentioning the test to her. But if you do want her on your side as Queen, you must let her take the test. We are behind you, Prince Arthur, and we shall always support Camelot with the best of our strength, but we shan't accept a base-born serving wench as our Queen. Nor would Lord Godwyn, whose daughter – a Llyr princess at that – you've thrown over for the Mistress Guinevere."

"Then I shall let her go," said Arthur heavily. "I love her too much to allow her to put her life at risk like that."

Merlin whole-heartedly agreed, glad that Arthur was reasonable enough to make that particular sacrifice. Even if it meant denying the future, both he and Lancelot had seen in the Crystal Cave. Unlike other people, he knew how to take such visions with a healthy amount of scepticism… and besides, more than enough people had already died in the name of destiny, he found.

The lords present leaned back in their chairs with a satisfied smirk upon their faces. They all were more than relieved to have narrowly avoided the spectacular scandal Arthur's intended mésalliance would have caused in the Five Kingdoms. They all very much doubted that either Odin or Olaf or Alined would accept a Queen on Camelot's throne who wasn't a proper princess. Not to mention King Rodor of Nemeth, whose daughter was of marriageable age. Some of them even secretly hoped that they could talk Arthur into marrying Princess Mithian as soon as he came to his senses – which would also set the old dispute about the border lands of Gedref to rest.

Gaius and Master Geoffrey were relieved for different reasons. They both liked Gwen and were afraid that the _Siege Perilous_ would kill her. There was no way to be sure that Tauren of Cameliand _had_ told the truth, after all. He might simply have wanted her to help him kill Uther, should Morgana be unwilling. No; she was safer on her own. One day she would find a man of her status and marry him, leading the life she had always been meant for: that of a contented peasant who just happened to be the sister of a knight.

They all had forgotten to include Gwen, though, and her determination to become Arthur's Queen. There were many little niches in Camelot, known to servants only, from where they could listen to their masters' supposedly secret councils. The well-hidden door of one of such niches was now tossed open and in stormed Gwen, in a rustle of heavy, rose-coloured silk, her eyes burning.

"If you believe you can make this decision for me, Arthur Pendragon, then you are sorely mistaken!" she announced. "It is _my_ choice, and I am _not_ giving you up. Let's go to that rotten old chair, and I shall show you all that I do indeed have the makings of a Queen!"


	19. The Judgement of the Siege Perilous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we wander off to AU-lands. The role of the _Siege Perilous_ is part of my personal Merlin mythology that has nothing to do with either the legends, or the TV-series. Just to make things clear.
> 
> Beta read by my good friend, Linda Hoyland - thanks!

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Chapter 19 – The Judgement of the _Siege Perilous_  
**  
Her bold declaration led to the expected pandemonium, of course… for various reasons. Those who were her friends or simply liked her worried greatly that she might perish taking the dangerous test. Others, on the contrary, were afraid that she might prove to be the real item and they would have the blacksmith's daughter a their Queen, after all.

"Blood alone does not a proper Queen make," muttered Count Waldemar darkly. "Whatever her true origins may be, she was raised as a peasant and spent her life as the maidservant of the Lady Morgana, of all people!"

The court nobles all seemed to be in agreement.

"If she proves her blood to be true, you'll have your work cut out for you to give her at least _some_ polish, my dear," said Sir Geraint to his lady wife who happened to be the ranking court lady of Camelot. "She is as common as dirt, after all."

"Oh, trust me; I shall polish her till she begs for mercy," replied Lady Cunneware in cold disdain. "None of her usual tricks would help her."

"What tricks?" asked Lady Enide in surprise.

"Well, she's supposed to be the daughter of a sorcerer, isn't she?" answered the other lady with an elegant shrug. "Perhaps the accusations that she'd bewitched the Prince weren't so false, after all."

To everyone's surprise – including Gwen herself – Elyan was the one to protest against the test most vehemently.

"But don't you want to know the truth?" asked Gwaine. " _I would_."

Elyan shot him a baleful look. "You are wondering why I wouldn't want to put my sister's life at risk, in case the sorcerer – who, by the way, got my father executed – had lied to her?" he asked back acerbically. "She is my only family, in case you have forgotten."

"But what if the sorcerer told her the truth?" argued Gwaine.

"Yeah, because _that_ would be so much better!" Elyan snarled. "That would mean our mother cheated on _my_ father with a murderous sorcerer that got my father executed, just to serve his own purposes. I am going to lose my sister in either case." He turned to Gwen, pleading. "For God's sake, Gwen, think about what you're planning to do twice! Do you really want to become Queen of Camelot so much that you're willing to risk everything for it? Even your life?"

"Yes," replied Gwen coldly, and there was darkness in her eyes that had nothing to do with their natural colour.

Elyan shook his head in defeat. "Very well. Do as you wish – you always have. But I am not staying here to watch this farce. As far as I am concerned, we are no longer brother and sister. With your leave, sire," he added for Arthur, bowed to him respectfully and left.

The audience room was so quiet that one could have heard a single pin drop.

"Perhaps he is right," said Arthur after a lengthy pause. "Perhaps you should reconsider, Guinevere. This is a great risk you are about to take."

"I don't care," replied Gwen in cold fury. "All my life I've been treated like nothing in this castle. Morgana was the only one who saw me as a _person_ , not just as a servant… until she turned evil, that is. Now I finally get the chance to prove that my blood is as good as theirs," she pointed with her chin in the direction of the court nobles defiantly, "and I am not going to let my only chance slip through my fingers."

"Yet if you were lied to, you will die," Gaius warned her. Gwen shrugged.

"So be it. They wouldn't let Arthur marry me otherwise – and being dead is better than becoming a lowly servant again. I am not going back to _that_."

Gaius sighed and shook his head. "Very well, then," he said, seeing that he wouldn't be able to talk her out of taking such a foolish risk; she had clearly set her mind of becoming Arthur's Queen, no matter what. "I'm sure Master Geoffrey has a map somewhere in his archives that can tell us where in the Vaults the _Siege Perilous_ is kept."

"Indeed, I have," declared the court genealogist placidly.

"Then do find it, Master Geoffrey, and let us be done with this farce, as Sir Elyan so rightly called it," said Sir Ector grimly. "The sooner we learn the truth the better for us all."

"Save for Guinevere, if the sorcerer lied to her," reminded him Arthur.

Sir Ector shrugged. "She was the one to place the challenge; she ought to live with the consequences… or _not_ ," he replied coldly.

It was fairly obvious that he was hoping for the latter – and that he was not alone in that.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Elyan left his cape and his mail shirt in the small chamber in the Citadel before heading for the lower town, as was his wont. He preferred to leave _Sir_ Elyan behind where he belonged and become Elyan the blacksmith again as soon as he passed the gates of the Citadel. _Sir_ Elyan was still something of a stranger to him; somebody he never truly wanted to become.

He pledged himself to Arthur because he believed in Arthur; he believed that he prince, brave and just and generous that he was, would become a great king one day. He would lay down his life for Arthur – but he wouldn't necessarily have to become a knight to do so.

He wasn't _meant_ to be a knight. Just as Gwen wasn't meant to be Queen, no matter what her true parentage. It pained Elyan very much, the cold disdain with which she had spoken about her former life. That she would rather die than go back to it.

What was wrong with being a commoner anyway? They had a good life. Being a blacksmith, their father – _his_ father, he corrected himself, and didn't _that_ hurt? – could always put enough bread onto the table. They had everything they needed, and wasn't Gwen always Father's little princess, the apple of his eye? Hadn't Father got into business with that cursed sorcerer, just to earn some more coin, so that he could buy Gwen better clothes and other nice things?

And now Gwen was hell-bent to disown Father, to prove that she was the natural daughter of that very sorcerer, just so that she could marry the Prince Regent and lord it over all the court nobles she had been serving all her life. Elyan's heart was breaking, and he was almost glad that their father was dead already. The poor man couldn't have lived with the betrayal of a daughter that had been the single shining star of his life.

Granted, Elyan had left his home for years, but that was what journeymen _did_ : travelling from town to town, from village to village, from realm to realm. That was how they learned their trade; for every master craftsman had his own little tricks worth learning. And yet Gwen had started complaining about his absence the minute they had met again.

Elyan had not become such a good blacksmith by learning from his father alone. He had travelled, mostly on foot, across all five main kingdoms of Albion, and across many of the petty ones, too. Right now, no-one in Camelot could compare with his skill, not even the royal blacksmith himself. That was why he had several apprentices and journeymen, despite his youth.

Truly, what had Gwen expected? To become a master of his craft, a journeyman usually travelled for four to seven years. Their father – _his_ father, he corrected himself bitterly again – knew that; had done the same in his youth, in fact. Had Gwen been apprenticed to a weaver or an embroideress or to any other mistress of the female crafts, _she_ would have done the same, albeit in a smaller scale. Girls didn't leave for the same length of time as youths did.

But Gwen never wanted to learn a trade. Spoiled by a doting Lady Madelyn, she wanted to live in the Castle, and the only way for her to do so was to become a Castle servant. Even to that, she had needed the support of Lady Madelyn, but in the end, she succeeded.

And now she wanted the Castle to be hers.

Elyan shook his head tiredly. What did Gwen hoped for anyway? Even if she could prove to be the bastard of a nobly born foreign sorcerer, the court nobles would never accept her as an equal. She would always remain 'the blacksmith's daughter'. There would be mean-spirited talk behind her back, and a hundred eyes would watch her, waiting eagerly for her to fall. There would be no-one she could really count on – the serving girls especially – save perhaps Merlin. But even Merlin would be predominantly concerned with Arthur's well-being; that was his task, after all.

Gwen would be alone. Completely alone. Elyan wondered why becoming Queen would be worth giving up everything and everyone else. Even Lancelot, for whom she had serious feelings. Or, at least, used to, according to Merlin. 

_And_ to Gwaine.

Somebody calling his name brought him out of his brooding. Turning around, he saw that his feet had carried him on well beyond his own smithy, almost to the house where Merlin's mother, Mistress Hunith, now lived. But it wasn't Hunith who had called out to him. It was Zulfiya, standing on the doorstep of the apothecary's workshop, wearing her usual brown kirtle over a pale yellow undergown, her thick black hair held together by a green cloth and a long green apron covering her clothes. The golden earring she wore cast merry lights over her neck and face,

Once again, Elyan felt stunned by her simple, unadorned beauty, and he walked over to her without a conscious decision. She gave him a gentle smile.

"You look like someone who has the weight of the world to bear on his shoulders," she said.

"It does feel like that sometimes," he admitted.

"Shared burdens are easier to bear," she offered. "Why don't you come in and tell me about it while I watch some vile herbal concoction bubble away merrily on the brazier?"

To his own surprise, Elyan found that he would very much like to do just that.

"Would you not get in trouble with your master, though?" he asked.

Zulfiya shook her head, still smiling. "Master David has gone to the weekly meeting of the _Merchant's Guild_. I've got the shop all to myself. Besides, he knows he can trust me. Come, I'll make you a soothing herbal tea; it will keep you warm, and herbs are the only things that still grow in abundance in these days."

After a moment of hesitation, Elyan accepted the offer – more for the company, in truth, than for the tea. As Benet had rightly spotted, he did like the Saracen girl a great deal. He just did not want to get sidetracked by his own feelings right now, when the kingdom was on the brink of destruction.

But Arthur had already made it clear that he would not be needed on the Quest; that he would be left behind to keep his sister safe… his treacherous sister who was just about to rid herself of the man who had loved her as only a true father could. Perhaps it was time that Elyan, too, thought of his own happiness, beyond the service he had accepted from his future King.

"Right; why not?" he said and ducked after the girl to enter the little shop that smelled of hundreds of drying herbs.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Getting to the _Siege Perilous_ wasn't as easy as one would expect. As Gaius had – correctly – said, it was kept in the Vaults; but the Vaults of Camelot Castle were a literal maze of rooms and tunnels and crumbling stone staircases, extending in all directions and on several levels under the Citadel, like the tentacles of some petrified ancient monster.

Finally, they reached the tunnel leading to the Siege Room, which was a rather large chamber – it had to provide enough space for the court nobles when the future King was being tested, after all – with pillars of black marble holding up an arched ceiling. The _Siege Perilous_ stood on a low dais in a richly carved niche, opposite the heavy wrought iron doors. To the surprise of most (save for Gaius, Master Geoffrey and Sir Ector who had been present at Uther's test) the chamber wasn't entirely dark, though. Narrow bundles of sunlight fell in through cleverly hidden shafts, high in the ceiling, giving the room an even more dramatic appearance through the stark contrast of bright and dark.

The _Siege Perilous_ itself was a lot less impressive, to tell the truth. If they had expected to see an intricately wrought throne of gold or marble, cushioned with velvet or gilded leather, they were disappointed. It was merely a square chair, made of dark, petrified wood (almost turned to real stone by its high age), in the fashion of the ancient times, long before the Five Kingdoms had been founded. On its high back was carved the coat-of-arms of House Don in high relief: an old-fashioned lozenge shield with the twelve-rayed Sun in its middle, and the crossbeams under the seat were adorned by cut-out sun symbols as well.

"So, what am I going to do?" asked Gwen, eyeing the rather unremarkable chair warily. "Just sit on it?"

"Basically, yes," replied Gaius. "However, there is a ritual connected to the test; Master Geoffrey knows how it's done Listen to him, all of you, and if he asks you a question, answer it truthfully."

The knights and the court nobles nodded and Geoffrey de Monmouth stepped forward.

"We have gathered here before the _Siege Perilous_ so that it may judge over the statement of the Dame Guinevere that she be of the blood of House Don," he announced. "I call you all as witnesses that the challenge was uttered by her out of her own free will. Do you all testify that it was so?"

"We do," the knights and court nobles answered in unison.

"Do you swear by your name and the family crest that you wear that you shall not interfere with the test and shall always tell the truth about its outcome when asked?" continued Master Geoffrey.

"We do," the court replied as one.

Master Geoffrey now turned to Gwen.

"Dame Guinevere, as you declare you have the right to be addressed, do you understand that the _Siege Perilous_ is merciless and cannot be deceived?"

"I do," said Gwen defiantly.

Master Geoffrey suppressed a sigh. He hated what he was forced to do, and was still not entirely convinced that the girl wasn't the blacksmith's daughter, after all.

"Are you willing to accept death as a consequence, should you be mistaken or should you be trying to mislead this court deliberately?" he asked.

"I am," replied Gwen, her eyes very dark again. She was afraid, they all could see that; but it was also obvious that she would rather die than back off.

"Very well," said Master Geoffrey tiredly. "Since we clearly cannot talk you out of this folly, you may step forward and sit on the chair. Remember, your hands are supposed to lie on the armrests when you do. I must also warn you that the chair may reject you because you have the blood of House Llyr in your veins as well."

"Would it kill her because of that?" asked Count Waldemar, sounding almost hopeful.

Master Geoffrey shook his head. "No; but it may make the experience rather… unpleasant."

"It doesn't matter," said Gwen coldly. "You won't accept me, unless the chair proves my claim true. So be it. I _will_ sit in the damned chair; and then you will have no choice. Let's do this!"

With that, she gathered her skirts around her and crossed the room with long, determined strides. Once she reached the dais, she climbed the three steps, turned around, and lowered herself into the chair slowly, as if expecting to fall over dead any moment.

Which was probably what the court nobles were waiting for, with various degrees of eagerness.

For the moment, however, nothing happened.

"Hands on the armrests," ordered Master Geoffrey quietly. "Your skin must touch the wood, so that the chair can recognize you as one of its own… or not."

Gwen nodded wit grim determination and grabbed the armrests with both hands. At the very moment when her hands touched the wood, she began convulsing, as if wracked by deadly cramps. Sir Leon moved instinctively to help her, but Master Geoffrey held him back, just as Gaius had to grab Merlin's arm to stop him.

"No," the court genealogist said. "Remember, you must not interfere with Judgement. She chose this; she must go through it alone."

Gwen kept writhing in the chair as if in terrible pain and Merlin saw in shock that she was bleeding from the eyes. After what seemed eternity but was probably just a few heartbeats' time, she finally rose from the chair, pale and wrung out and with blood trickling down her cheeks but still very much alive.

"I hope, my lords, that you are satisfied with my proof,' she said coldly, and promptly fainted into Sir Leon's arms.

The silence all but echoed in the Siege Chamber.

"Take her to her chambers," Gaius finally said to Merlin. "I'll look in on her repeatedly until she recovers her strength; but I have no doubt that she'll be fine in a day or two. She's stronger than many may believe."

"I'll take her,' said Sir Leon. "She'd be too heavy for Merlin, who's only tiny."

Merlin, wisely, decided that it wasn't the right time to feel insulted by the well-meant though patronising words of the First Knight and scurried off after them.

"And so the _Siege Perilous_ has judged the claim of Dame Guinevere to be true," announced Master Geoffrey. "Let us seal its chamber off again and return to the light."

The court nobles agreed with the suggestion and left the Siege Chamber, one by one. Arthur was first, hurrying after Sir Leon, to see how Gwen was doing. Sir Ector and Count Waldemar were the last ones to leave.

"Of the blood of House Don she may be," said the Count disdainfully. 'Yet she is nothing but a common serving wench. I grieve for Camelot."

"So do I, in truth," muttered Sir Ector. "And now I'll have to break the news to Uther – and hope that we both will be alive at the end of _that_ discussion."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As Sir Ector had expected, the heavy melancholy of King Uther gave way to barely controlled rage upon hearing the news. Fortunately, there were very few breakable items in the King's bedchamber; for those there lay in smithereens within moments.

"Bewitched!" raged the King. "She has my son bewitched, and Arthur was fool enough not to take notice. We were _all_ fools. Morgana was right. I should have that little slattern burned on the stake right away!"

"There was no proof, or so I am told, sire," pointed out Sir Ector reasonably, although he was secretly glad that Uther now apparently could at least speak about his estranged daughter.

"No proof?" snarled Uther. "My son falls head over heels for a serving wench, ready to give up his inheritance for a blacksmith's daughter, and you say there was no proof of enchantment? That insolent wench isn't even pretty – Arthur has better taste than _that_."

"Well, it seems she isn't a blacksmith's daughter, after all," said Sir Ector. "The _Siege Perilous_ does not lie. We have all witnessed the truth."

"No," Uther greed darkly. "She is apparently the bastard of a foul sorcerer who tried to make my own daughter murder me. So how, pray tell, is that any better?"

"It is not," admitted Sir Ector, because that was actually true.

"I wonder if it wasn't he who planted the seed of betrayal in Morgana's heart," mused the King, his heartbreak getting the upper hand again. "She has always been wilful, but to fall under the spell of Morgause so easily, to turn on everything and everyone she loved – there must have been some foul enchantment at work."

"Perhaps so," allowed Sir Ector, because it was never a good thing to argue with a grieving Uther, not even for somebody who was currently ruling the kingdom in his name. "But we cannot blame Dame Guinevere for that."

"Can't we?" asked Uther grimly. "That whole family of hers is a bunch of traitors and sorcerers. Her foster father, the blacksmith, worked for the sorcerer for gold. Her true father, the sorcerer, tried to have me murdered and turned my daughter against me. And now she is about to take my son from me…" he shook his head in despair. "A serving wench and the bastard of a murderous sorcerer on Camelot's throne… Everything I've worked and fought for in the last twenty years in ruins… We should have been more thorough in our pursuit of sorcery…

He trailed off, his speech becoming slurred. He blinked owlishly as if suddenly having trouble with seeing and one side of his face went oddly slack, all of a sudden. He made an attempt to reach out for his cup of wine, but his arm dropped to his side nervelessly, and there was panic in his eyes.

Sir Ector felt like panicking, too. There was clearly something very wrong with the King, and he had never felt so helpless in his entire life.

With an increasing feeling of dread, the Regent hurried to the door, tore it open, and called out for Morris, the King's manservant.

"Get me Gaius at once!"

"What is wrong with my father?" asked Arthur, an hour or so later, when Gaius had finished his examination of the King.

"I am afraid his condition is very serious, sire," answered the old man soberly. "He's suffered apoplexy – also known as a brain attack – due to the rapture of a blood vessel in his brain. It happens to old people as a rule; but also to those of middle age, if the pressure of blood in the veins is too high and they become enraged. Both of those happen with a certain frequency to King Uther, I fear."

"Was it because of me?" Arthur was deathly white. "Because of my declaration to marry Guinevere?"

"Most likely," replied Gaius bluntly. "You couldn't expect him to be happy with that; especially now that her true parentage has been revealed. Her being of common birth was bad enough for Uther. Her being the daughter of a sorcerer, and of _that_ sorcerer of all people, was worse. Much worse."

"So, in truth, I did this to my father," murmured Arthur, stricken with guilt.

"No," Gaius replied forcefully. "Morgana did this to him; she and Morgause, the driving power behind the recent events. Had Uther been healthy and in his right mind, this most likely wouldn't have happened. You know that his health, moreso his spirit, was seriously weakened lately. Don't blame yourself for something that's not your fault, my Prince."

Arthur shrugged, clearly not convinced about being blameless in his father's condition.

"Will he survive?" he asked anxiously.

Gaius nodded. "Fortunately, Sir Ector was there and called me just in time. But it will be hard on him. I can't tell just yet if he'll be able to regain full use of his dominant hand ever again… or if he'll be capable of coherent speech in the near future. We can but wait and see. He'll be bed-ridden for some time and unlikely to leave his chambers on his own for a while… if ever."

Arthur rubbed his temples tiredly. "What am I supposed to do now? Give up on the Quest? Give up on Guinevere?"

"Giving up on the Quest is not an option; not if you want to save your kingdom from starving," said Sir Ector forcefully. "And as much as I wish you had found a more suitable bride, if you've set your mind on marrying her, you should do so, as soon as possible. The kingdom needs stability; and especially with the current condition of your father, you'll need an heir, soon, to ensure the line of succession against Morgana."

"But I cannot marry before the Quest!" argued the Prince. "The law requires a betrothal period of a few months, at the very least, and I must go on the Quest without further delay."

"Which is why you ought to announce your betrothal before you leave," said Sir Ector. "It will give people time to get used to the thought of having a blacksmith's daughter – for that is how everyone will think of her, regardless of her true parentage – as their future Queen. And it gives _her_ time to learn to behave as the future Queen. Being officially betrothed to you will not enable her to rule in your name, for which she is not suited, but it will show the people that their future is secured. Even if it is not," he added, somewhat cynically.

"Very well," said Arthur after a lengthy pause. "I bow to your proven wisdom, Sir Ector. I'll have the invitations to the betrothal feast sent to all our allies. It will have to be a modest feast, but it will show out people that life is about to return to normal. Even if it is not," he added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I wonder, though, what those allies will say when they learn about Prince Arthur's choice of a Queen," commented Master Geoffrey in concern.

Sir Geraint, who happened to be in the library, just shrugged.

"Let's hope that no-ne of them will change alliances," he said dryly.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Later in the afternoon, Merlin asked for Arthur's leave to visit his mother. It was proof for Arthur's newfound wariness towards him and what he might be able to do that it was promptly granted. This saddened him and made him wonder whether Arthur would ever be able to trust him as he used to, but it could not be helped. Come the Quest, he needed Arthur to trust his powers – of which the Prince was still not fully aware – more than to trust him as a person, no matter how much he longed for their former, easy camaraderie… as much as _that_ was possible at all between Prince and servant.

To his surprise, he found his mother's house – well, Mistress Alice's house, or rather Gaius's, in these days – quite full. Aside from William who, after all, lived there, Elyan had also come to visit, and with him the Saracen girl, the apothecary's apprentice, whom Hunith had taken under her wings, much to the orphaned girl's delight. The four of them were sitting around the table, while Benet, Elyan's journeyman – who happened to be from William's destroyed village, Daria, as they had discovered quite recently – was hovering in the background.

Benet's family, too, had been killed in the attack of Cenred's undead army, including his wife who had been pregnant with their first child, and he was glad to have found at least one familiar face in Camelot. Hunith had taken them in like a hen some lost chicks.

Merlin, for his part, was glad about that. William might be a faithful soul and much stronger than he looked, but few people could measure their strength to that of a blacksmith in his prime. Hunith was much safer for the frequent visits of Benet. These were desperate times, when one could be killed for a piece of day-old bread, after all.

When he entered, all looked at him with various degrees of anxiety.

"Well?" Elyan finally asked. "How did it go?"

"It went enough… for Gwen, at least," replied Merlin, "Or rather as well as it was supposed to go, seeing that she has the blood of House Llyr in her veins, too, through your mother. The _Siege Perilous_ … err… _tolerated_ her. She is alive, though a little worse for the wear."

"But she will recover, won't she?" asked Hunith, who quite liked Gwen; at least the Gwen she used to be before putting on queenly airs.

Merlin nodded. "In a day or two; or so Gaius says," he looked at Elyan. "You should be relieved, you know. You could have lost her; it was by no means certain that Tauren told her the truth."

"I have already lost her, in the very moment she chose to sit in that cursed chair," answered Elyan darkly. "My father doted on her; she was his little princess, the apple of his eye. He went out of his way to keep her happy; hell, he _died_ while trying to give her more than his modest means would allow. And how did she pay him for all that? By disowning him in favour of a foul conjurer who got him executed. I have no need for such a sister."

"It will be difficult to reject her when she becomes our Queen, what with you being one of the Knights of Camelot and all," pointed out Benet reasonably.

Elyan nodded. "I know. Which is why I shall leave the Round Table," he turned to Merlin. "Tell Arthur that he can always count on my sword when Camelot is in peril. I would never go back on my sworn oath to him. But I am not a nobleman; nor am I meant to be a knight. I, at least, am not ashamed of being a blacksmith and a blacksmith's son. And I do not wish to be tolerated at court just because the future Queen and I happen to have had the same mother."

"That's not why Arthur chose you as one of the knights, and you know that," said Merlin quietly.

"I know," replied Elyan. "As I said, I shall be ready to fight or die for him, whenever it is needed But I don't wish to watch my _half_ -sister," he gave the word great emphasis. "strutting around, wearing a crown she bought for the blood of my father."

"You are being unfair, Elyan," said Hunith gently. "As I understand, Gwen had no part in the death of your father."

"But _her_ father did," returned Elyan bitterly. "And she chose him over the man who raised her as his own and died for her. Just to become the Queen of Camelot."

"Or perhaps just because she loves Prince Arthur," Hunith pointed out.

Elyan shook his head. "I'm not that sure about it, Mistress Hunith. She was drawn to Lancelot, too, and hesitated long enough before choosing. I _hope_ she chose Arthur out of love, not because he's the heir to the throne… but I do have my doubts. So does Gwaine, for that matter."

"I cannot believe it!" exclaimed Hunith; then she looked at her son. "Can _you_?"

"Oh, I do think that she loves Arthur," replied Merlin. "But it's also true that she nearly took my head off when I came back without Lancelot."

"They are friends," Hunith reminded him. "It is understandable that she would be worried about him. There doesn't have to be anything sinister behind it."

"I hope not," said Merlin. "But she has changed, Mother, since you last met her. I don't know if it's because of what she'd learned about her true parentage or because of Morgana's influence, but she's no longer the sweet, simple girl I used to know. And quite frankly, I liked her better the way she used to be."

"Well, she's going to be the Queen," said Benet reasonably. "That ought to bring changes, doesn't it? Is it official now? Will there be a betrothal feast?"

Merlin nodded. "A very modest one, considering the situation of the kingdom right now, but yes, there will be. The invitations will go out to the kings and allied lords of the other kingdoms tomorrow. Master Geoffrey's scribes will be working on them all night."

"And what has King Uther got to say to this?" asked Zulfiya frowning. "I can't imagine him being happy with the Prince's choice."

"The King suffered a brain seizure upon hearing the news," explained Merlin grimly. "He won't be saying anything to this… or getting up from his bed any time soon. Sir Ector insisted on having the betrothal feast before Arthur sets off on the Quest for the Grail, to show that the line of succession will be secured."

"I can't imagine Sir Ector being happy with Arthur's choice, either," commented Elyan dryly. "He was shocked enough by me being a knight…"

"He is not m no-one really is," Merlin confessed. "But he said that if Arthur means to marry Gwen, he'd better make it official _before_ he leaves, in case Uther should die during his absence. That would make it more difficult for Morgana to stake her claim."

"Could she do that?" asked William, puzzled.

"With Uther dead and Arthur away on some mythical quest from which he may or may not return?" asked Merlin back. "Oh, yes, she would most likely try and may even succeed. She already has once. She is a Pendragon, after all."

"She is illegitimate," pointed out Elyan. "Uther never recognized her as his own."

"But there are those who know the truth, including the court genealogist, and he is the one who counts," replied Merlin. "If the bastard line is the only one left, even the Law of Camelot allows an illegitimate child to be crowned. Not if the line of succession has already been secured and there is no hard proof that all legitimate children are dead, though."

"Since when are you so well-versed in hereditary laws?" asked Hunith in surprise. Merlin shrugged and gave her one of those self-deprecating grins of his.

"I'm not," he said simply. "I asked Master Geoffrey."

"So what now?" William asked. "What will become of the King?"

"He will need constant care, at least for the time being," replied Merlin and looked at his mother. "Gaius asks if you would be willing to help."

"Certainly," answered Hunith. "The young knights in the infirmary are getting better each day. They need more exercise than actual care, and the pages can help them with that much better than I can. Tell Gaius I'll see him tomorrow to discuss with him what needs to be done."

"I can help William with the herb garden in your absence," offered Zulfiya. "I used to help my mother with hers when I was a child and know which herbs to plant, where and when."

"What about you?" asked Merlin from Elyan. "Are you returning to the Citadel at all?"

The blacksmith-turned-knight shook his head.

"I hoped I could talk William into returning my armour, sword, and cloak to Sir Leon," he said. "I shall use a sword of my own making in the future."

"Sure, I can do it," said William. "But you better write the Prince a letter or something, so that he won't have _my_ head chopped off instead of yours."

"I'll speak with Arthur," said Merlin with a sigh. He was getting tired of running errands between Arthur and other people, but it was part of his destiny to protect the royal prat… even from himself, if he had to.

Hunith patted his arm encouragingly. "Leave tomorrow's concern to tomorrow," she said. "You are home now, so get some rest. It was a long day… and a far too exciting one for us all."


	20. The Wicked Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, some parts of this chapter came from the 4th season episode. Including a few lines of dialogue. Other parts come from the legends… and then we go AU again. Like with the name of the kings of Nemeth or Caerleon, which I have changed, and other things.
> 
> Beta read by my dear friend Linda Hoyland, whom I owe my never-ending gratitude. Brownie point to those who catch the gratuitous Star Trek reference. *g*

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 20 – THE WICKED DAY**

In the next morning – thanks to Master Geoffrey's scribes spending a sleepless night – the invitations to all Five Kingdoms were sent out. Well… to four of them anyway, seeing that Cenred's kingdom, Gorre, was currently without a King (or so everyone believed). One could reasonably expect that King Olaf, King Trevizent of Nemeth, King Alined of Cameliand and Lord Godwyn would come, or at least send a representative.

Out of courtesy, Arthur also had a letter sent to Baudemagus, the King of Caerleon, although it seemed unlikely that anyone would come from there, and to King Odin, who everyone hoped would stay away.

King Marke of Cornwall was already represented in Camelot by his nephew, Sir Tristan, as well as King Lot of Orkney by his sons, Sir Gaheris, Sir Agravaine and Gareth. Princess Iseult, the only daughter of Anguish of Ireland, was being expected to have a rest here on her way to Cornwall, where she was supposed to marry Sir Tristan's uncle.

It promised to be a splendid crowd of royal guests, all of whom would hopefully contribute to the feast. However, it was a matter of much greater excitement, at least for the Castle servants, that Sir Elyan had apparently decided to leave the Brotherhood of the Round Table and sent his armour, sword and red cloak back to Sir Leon.

The gossip mill was working overtime, and the wildest guesswork ever went on among the lower ranks.

"He didn't even bring his things back in person," exclaimed Drea, a young scullery maid from Howden, whose village had been destroyed by Cenred's undead army, forcing her to seek refuge in Camelot. "He sent them back with that bearded young man who lives in the lower town, protecting Merlin's mother!"

Thanks to Rowena, also a scullery maid (in undying love with Merlin, or so she liked to believe) everyone was well aware of Hunith's living arrangements.

"Can you blame him?" commented Branwen, the highest ranking chambermaid, with the biggest grudge against Gwen. "Would _you_ want to become the subject of your own sister? Even more so if she turns out to be the daughter of a sorcerer who got your father killed?"

It was said that news spread faster than wildfire in Camelot; it was certainly true amongst the lower ranks.

"That's hardly Gwen's fault," said Beatrice, another chambermaid, who had become a little more understanding towards Gwen's situation since Sir Kay made her his _maitresse_.

"No," admitted Branwen reluctantly. "But she publicly disowned Tom Blacksmith as her father, choosing the sorcerer that had caused his death; and _that_ had to hurt Sir Elyan very much. I wish _I could_ simply leave; the thought of having to curtsey to Gwen and jump at her every whim turns my stomach. But I can't just abandon my duties here; our family has served the Pendragons for many generations and we have always taken great pride in it. But it galls me mightily to serve _Gwen_."

"If it galls _you_ , imagine what the court ladies must feel like," giggled Cathryn, also a chambermaid, serving in the ladies' wing. "Lady Cunneware is like an ice queen from the old tales; I cannot imagine her – or Lady Enide, for that matter – curtseying to a former serving wench. She's not even a subject of the Pendragons, strictly speaking."

"She is now, as she has married a Knight of Camelot," pointed our Branwen. "But I see what you mean. With those two, Gwen had better tread carefully."

"And with _me_ , you need to tread carefully, useless wenches that you are!" came a mighty yell from behind them, and they dispersed like a flock of birds as the voluptuous figure of Audrey Cook barrelled into the storage room where they were having their little gathering. "Get on with your work, Rowena, or so help me, I'll use your stupid face to scrub the pots from yesterday with! And you, Drea, get on with the cleaning of the oven or I'll find somebody with a tongue that waggles less and hands that work faster!"

No-one in their right mind would ever dare to stand up to Audrey Cook, not even Prince Arthur himself. Rumour said that even the King used to back off whenever she was in a foul mood, which was pretty much all the time. So the gossiping maids hurriedly departed with an unspoken promise of "later".

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Within days, the replies to the invitations began to flutter in, and by the end of the week, the guests themselves started arriving, too. Princess Iseult of Ireland was the first, as she had been on her way already, accompanied by her handmaid and confidante, a young lady named Eira:I a golden-haired, blue-eyed beauty like herself, who seemed to catch Gwaine's interest at once. The Princess greeted Sir Tristan as an old friend and would leave for Cornwall in his company after the betrothal feast.

The second to arrive was Lady Vivian, representing her father, King Olaf. As it was widely known that she was still suffering from the love spell laid upon her by King Alined's conjurer, her presence at the same feast to which Alined, too, had to be invited, was the cause of some concern. But she didn't seem to seek out Arthur's company at all, and – even though she quite demonstratively let Gwen know how much a serving wench, even a former one, was beneath her – she appeared happy enough to spend her days with the court ladies, few of those though there were.

King Trevizent of Nemeth also sent his only daughter and heir in his stead. Princess Mithian – another promising bride considered by Uther whom Arthur had rejected in the past in favour of Gwen – turned out to be a stunning, dark-haired beauty and a gifted negotiator, who was apparently also a great huntress, despite her deceivingly delicate looks. She had a white unicorn's head in her personal device and made fast friends with the other princesses as well as with the court ladies within hours of her arrival.

She was the only one who at least made an attempt to treat Gwen with some semblance of respect, making it unmistakably clear, though, that said respect was owed to Gwen's future status rather than her person.

"Consider yourself fortunate, Dame Guinevere," she said with cold politeness. "Prince Arthur truly risks everything for you; I know no other man of royal blood who would be ready to give up so much for love. See that you repay him with proper gratitude."

"I don't need your lecturing, my lady," replied Gwen coldly.

"It seems to me that you do," said Mithian. "I'd give my lands and my crown to be loved like that. Alas, whoever I will marry in the end, it will be for the good of Nemeth, not for my own. Treat Arthur's love to you as the undeserved gift it is and remember: it can just as easily turn against you if not nurtured carefully."

With that, she turned around and left Gwen alone in the courtyard to interpret her warning as she wanted… or would.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
"Oh, look, it seems King Alined and his entourage have arrived!" said Merlin brightly.

He and Arthur were standing on top of the stairway leading down to the courtyard, watching the hive of activity down on the square. A caravan of colourful carts was being unloaded by acrobats, dancers, jugglers, strong men, and jesters before their very eyes. A female acrobat – barely more than a little girl – back-flipped into her partner's arms casually, while the jugglers were practicing their routine, sending batons high into the air.

"Oh! Did you see that?" Merlin exclaimed in delight. Arthur, however, was decidedly unimpressed.

"It's a man throwing sticks in the air," he said in a bored tone.

It was only now that Merlin took in Arthur's mood.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Arthur just pulled a face.

"I mean, it is your _betrothal_ feast!" Merlin insisted. "Not a huge feast, admittedly, but you've got dancers, jugglers, and acrobats to entertain you. It must be a terrible burden," he added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Arthur gave him his _nobody-can-possibly-be-such-an-idiot_ look. Just like in old times, which unexpectedly warmed Merlin's heart.

"Have you forgotten what happened last time Alined brought his conjurers with him?" the Prince asked.

"Oh!" replied Merlin sheepishly because yes, he actually had. For the moment anyway. It was hard to forget it completely, with Lady Vivian in the Castle.

"But that can't happen again, right?" he asked. "I mean, with you getting betrothed to your one true love an all that…"

"Let's hope so," Arthur seemed a lot less optimistic about the whole thing. "I do not trust Alined any further than I can throw him."

"At least he isn't one of your almost-brides," said Merlin, grinning like a loon. "And you getting betrothed to Tauren's daughter, who went into exile rather than serving him as a court sorcerer, ought to ruin his appetite."

"There is that," admitted Arthur; then he put on a big, false smile and descended the stairs in a royal manner to greet his unstable ally.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the meantime, another party rode into the inner courtyard: an escort of two dozen men-at-arms on horseback, protectively surrounding a carriage pulled by four dappled grey horses. Two hundred head of cattle and several heavily loaded carts followed, which were immediately turned into the kitchen yard. Lord Godwyn, who was now getting off the carriage with the help of his manservant, clearly didn't come with empty hands.

After him, a tall, imperious woman clad in rich dark garments left the carriage, helping Princess Elena of Gawant to get off, and finally a small, elderly woman in a hooded grey cloak that obscured her face.

Princess Elena looked positively radiant, Merlin thought. She might have put on a little weight, but she did look a proper princess now, finally free of the Sidhe influence. Getting word of her arrival, Princess Mithian, Princess Iseult and Lady Vivian came down from the Castle in delight to greet her as their equal – which she was, even though her father wasn't a king – for news about her miraculous rescuing from the Sidhe had spread through all Five Kingdoms, and everyone was happy for her.

Gwen, too came forth, but not as much to greet and welcome her than to ask her about Lancelot's whereabouts. Which she promptly did, after a brief and stilted greeting. All these former almost-brides of Arthur showing up to her betrothal were getting on her nerves, honestly. Besides, she missed Lancelot.

"He was last seen in your father's castle," she told the Princess of Gawant accusingly. "So, where has he gone and what is he doing there? All Merlin would tell me is that he's gone to face his destiny… whatever that might be."

"And that is all I can tell you as well," replied Elena. "What concern of yours is his coming and going anyway? You have made your choice and he accepted it and stepped back, out of respect for his future King."

"He is still my knight and champion!" exclaimed Gwen, her face darkening with anger.

Elena shook her head. "No, he's not. He is a knight of _Camelot_ , and the champion of _Arthur_ , not yours. You should honour your own choice, because you'll soon have a lord of your own and thus it's your part to love _him_. There is no queen in the whole of Albion who'd have a king on her side as great as Arthur Pendragon would soon become."

"How do you _dare_!" cried Gwen, her eyes black with barely controlled fury.

Elena remained unimpressed. "I dare because that is the truth," she replied coldly. "If it weren't for you, I might have the love of Sir Lancelot, by whom I'm now carrying the son that has been promised my line since the end of the Fallen Kings: the son who would reunite the Houses Don and Llyr and who shall be, in his time, the best knight of Albion."

For a moment, it seemed as if Gwen would lose her mind from sheer anger. Some of those who witnessed the scene were afraid that she might actually hit the Princess of Gawant, destroying an alliance older than herself in a moment of fury.

In the last moment, however, she stilled her own hand and said icily, "So you have taken advantage on the loneliness of my champion and got yourself with child by him like a tavern whore."

"I followed my destiny as it has been foretold, for I am the last Princess of Llyr and have an obligation to continue my line," corrected Elena, her voice equally cold. "Sir Lancelot and I have both had visions at the holy well and understood our duty. He accepted our son as his and named him Galahad; none of which is truly your concern."

"But it _is_ my concern _not_ to have you in _my_ court, at _my_ betrothal feast," hissed Gwen. "I don't need you, nor the alms of your father. You'll leave at daybreak tomorrow and never return, if you value your life."

"Oh, but this is not _your_ court; not now and not for a while yet," interrupted the stern voice of Lady Cunneware. "You are not the Queen of Camelot yet; and as long as you haven't been crowned, you have no right to forbid anyone to attend the courtly feasts – at the very least the long-time, faithful allies of Camelot."

Gwen whirled around and opened her mouth to rebuke the ranking court lady, but Cunneware silenced her with a raised hand.

"You would do well to remember your place, Dame Guinevere, which is – at this moment – still merely that of a Castle servant. You may have successfully bewitched Prince Arthur where other, more suitable brides have failed, but there is one thing he will ever hold even above you, and that is the good of Camelot. Harm the kingdom in any way, especially by undermining long-standing alliances, and Arthur will come to his senses and send you back to that peasant's cottage where you came from."

Turning her back to the helplessly gaping Gwen, Lady Cunneware turned to the Princess of Gawant with a deep curtsey.

"Welcome to Camelot once again, Princess Elena," she said. "I've taken the liberty of giving you quarters between those of Princess Mithian and Lady Vivian, since our _chatelaine_ ," she emphasized the word so that no-one would doubt whom she meant, "is otherwise occupied in these days. Prince Arthur's manservant will show you the way, won't you?" she looked at Merlin imperiously.

Merlin grinned. "Of course. If you would come with me, Princess…"

Elena and her lady-in-waiting, whom she introduced as the Dame Brisenne, as well as the hooded old woman, followed him to the guest chambers assigned to the Princess. Once there, they bolted the door, and the old woman tossed back her hood.

"Hallo Merlin," she said simply. "Is Gaius doing well?"

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the Feasting Hall of Camelot Castle Morris, King Uther's manservant of old, watched with interest as two acrobats were setting up a man-high circular board, divided into brightly coloured segments. He wondered what they would need it for. He had seen similar things in taverns but couldn't really imagine that it would be used for the same purpose on a royal feast.

The Gleeman, as the entertainers called their leader, came in at this very moment, casting a critical eye over the preparations, checking if everything was as it ought to be. He was a man of middling height and middle age, simply clad, but his clothes were made of surprisingly good fabric, with his greying ash blond hair slicked back from his face. It was a rather unremarkable face, not at all what one would expect from a travelling entertainer, but there was something in the look of his small, pale, beady eyes, in the tilt of his mouth that made Morris's skin crawl.

A sound that sounded like a _thump_ distracted him from his thoughts for a moment. Turning around, he saw objects flying out of a deep trunk. The Gleeman noticed it, too, and an unpleasant scowl appeared on his face.

"You have misplaced something Geldred?" he asked with ill-concealed exasperation.

A round and somewhat misshapen head – covered with a felt hat – appeared, peering out over the rim of the trunk. It belonged to a stunted body, barely taller than that of a ten-year-old child, though its owner (whose name was apparently Geldred) was clearly an adult.

"Our special gift to the Prince," he answered in a high-pitched voice. "I cannot find it anywhere."

He started to search again, with obviously growing concern, but the Gleeman fixed him with a piercing stare.

"Geldred," he said in a warning tone and the stunted one froze. It was undoubtedly apparent that the Gleeman was a man to be feared, which didn't really surprise Morris. His first instinct was rarely wrong… a useful thing when one served in the Castle, full of short-tempered royals and their guests.

The Gleeman, meanwhile, pulled a slim box from his tunic. "I took the liberty of ensuring their safe passage myself," he said with an unpleasant smirk.

Then he opened the box to reveal three sharp throwing daggers. "We must make sure this is a celebration the young Prince will never forget," he added, throwing one of the knives through the air with barely any aim at all.

It pierced the centre of the board with terrifying precision.

Morris was an observant man. That was how he had survived serving in the Castle since he was but a youth… although even a man with poorer observation skills would have spotted that these conjurers were up to no good. The question was, however, what _he_ could do about it.

The young Prince was clearly in some sort of danger… but Morris had no idea _what_ kind of danger it might be (though he did have his suspicions) and, more importantly, he had no proof. Neither could he stay close to the Prince all evening, as he was supposed to stay with the ailing King. Uther needed someone with him whom he could trust unconditionally.

That meant he needed an ally. One who _would_ stay near the Prince all evening; and one who might be able to protect him.

That ruled out the knights. They were good in battle, but too straightforward to spot an assassination attempt in time. Well, save for Sir Gwaine perhaps, but he had the unfortunate tendency to get very drunk, very quickly on such feasts.

That left, by necessity, Merlin. Unlike most people, Morris had an inkling that Prince Arthur's manservant wasn't the bumbling idiot most people took him for. An idiot couldn't have survived the pitfalls of Castle service for so long. And not only had he survived; somehow Prince Arthur tended to escape seemingly hopeless situations largely unharmed since the boy had entered his service.

A less observant man would have chalked it up to sheer luck. But Morris had seen much during his long years as King Uther's trusted manservant and therefore knew that there was more to Merlin than what met the eye. He was always very careful _not_ to ask what, exactly, it was. It wouldn't have done any good to leave Prince Arthur bereft of – well, whatever it was. But now Morris was determined to put this unnamed… _thing_ to good use. For the protection of the young Prince.

He left the Feasting Hall in search for Merlin.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Gaius checked on King Uther's condition and was relieved to find some small – admittedly, _very_ small – improvement in both his speech and his movement. Apparently, the brain attack had been less severe than it had first seemed, and Gaius began to hope (tentatively) that the King might actually make an _almost_ full recovery. In time.

Arthur wanted to visit his father, of course, but Uther flat out refused to see him and Gaius advised against letting Gwen take care of the King as well.

"It was bad enough when Uther simply saw her as a commoner, as the blacksmith's daughter," he explained to Arthur. "Now he sees her as the evil spawn of a murderous sorcerer who has bewitched his only son. Having her around him would only worsen his condition."

"Will he recover enough to take on his kingly duties again?" asked Arthur.

It was the honest expression of filial concern, but it also meant: _Will he be able to stop me marrying Gwen?_

Gaius shook his head in regret. "Not for a long while yet, I'm afraid; perhaps never. I've asked Hunith to look after him and she agreed. She has a patient, agreeable nature, as you know, and she is a skilled healer in her own right. Your father will be in good hands."

Arthur knew that, too, of course, and he was relieved. To tell the truth, he didn't want Gwen around his father right now, either. That would have been horribly awkward, for both of them – and one couldn't have wished for a gentler, more caring person at somebody's bedside than Merlin's mother.

So he thanked Gaius, who then left because he'd been called to the chambers of Princess Elena… which surprised the elderly physician, as the Princess of Gawant had not looked particularly ill upon her arrival. Of course, her unpleasant encounter with Gwen could have left a sensitive lady in a delicate condition, but his previous experience suggested that Elena was not that sort of lady.

And indeed, she didn't seem particularly ill when Gaius entered her chambers.

"How can I help you, Princess?" he asked with a respectful bow.

"Truthfully, I do not require your services, Master Gaius," answered Elena with an open, friendly smile. "I just wanted to see you. I know it was you – and Merlin – who saved me from the Sidhe, and I wanted to thank you. Besides, I've brought someone with me who've longed to see you for the longest time. Mistress Alys?"

The small figure of a hooded and cloaked woman that had been huddling in the background now came forth, and as she tossed back her hood, Gaius felt his old heart constrict with joy and fear.

"Alice," he whispered, embracing his once and again love tightly. "You have taken great risks, coming here. If Uther knew…"

"But he doesn't and never will," interrupted Mistress Alice. "Worry not so much, my heart. I'm here under a different name, as Princess Elena's personal healer. She's with child and needs me around her person all the time. Besides," she added with a gentle smile, "how could I miss out the chance to see you again? We may not have such an opportunity very soon."

"It is still a great risk," said Gaius, and Mistress Alice nodded.

"I know. But you are worth it. And we are both too old to wait for a miracle to happen. We must use the time that is still left for us wisely."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Prince Arthur's betrothal feast to the Dame Guinevere began while it was still full daylight outside and everyone agreed that it was very grand. What it lacked in the amount and variety of food, it certainly made up for in entertainment. The travelling circus troupe had outdone itself to keep the Prince Regent and his guests amused.

They were a colourfully mixed bunch indeed, clad in loud colours, with bizarrely coiffed hair in the shape of cones or even horns… those who wore their hair long, that is. There were jugglers among them, throwing batons and brightly painted wooden balls in the air in rapidly changing patterns. There were fire blowers, shaping the flames coming out of their mouths in the most interesting forms. There were jesters, like Geldred, making rude jokes to the delight of the increasingly drunken guests. There were strong men, breaking the chains they were bound with, using only the muscles of their trunk-like arms and barrel chests. There was the acrobat girl, making breakneck back-flips on the shoulder of her partner. And so on…

And then there was the Gleeman, of course.

At first, he had merely watched the performance of his people, keeping an eye on things, keeping everyone in line. Then, when the act was over, he came forth and bowed, accepting the applause as his due as the head of the troupe. All eyes were focusing on him as he gestured to Geldred who handed him the box with his knives.

"I require a volunteer," he said.

None of the court nobles or knights was drunk enough yet to step forth but that did not really matter, as the Gleeman had his eyes firmly set on Arthur anyway. Sir Ector noticed that and grabbed the arm of the Prince under the table.

"Don't even _think_ about it, sire!" he hissed. But King Alined, seated near them at the high table, asked with a falsely benevolent smile.

"Why not? What better or more fitting occasion for the young Prince to demonstrate his legendary bravery?"

"Fitting for _you_ perhaps," muttered Princess Mithian darkly. "A chance to reach the goal you failed to accomplish last time." She glared at King Alined with unveiled dismay, and for a moment, it seemed that it would come to an open clash between the two of them, had the Gleeman not interfered.

"Do you accept the challenge?" he asked Arthur with a calculating gleam in his eyes.

The eyes of the courtiers and knights all turned to Arthur, awaiting his decision – either with excitement or with dread.

"Arthur, don't!" murmured Princess Mithian in a voice low enough so that only Arthur – and Merlin, who was standing by the Prince's chair, could hear. "It is said that Alined is in league with Odin in these days, and you know Odin is no friend of yours. This is not safe!"

"Of course it isn't," replied Arthur just as quietly. "It's knife throwing, after all. But I could hardly refuse his challenge," he rose from his seat, announcing in a clear, ringing voice that carried to the farthest corners of the Feasting Hall, "I accept!"

There was a round of applause as he made his was through the Hall, Merlin hot on his heels. Sir Ector, however, shook his head.

"This is folly. He shouldn't have accepted."

King Alined gave him a false smile. "Well, see it that way: should he have a… an unfortunate accident, we'll be spared the humiliation of bowing to Tauren's bastard as the Queen of Camelot," of all people present, he had the most personal reasons to hope for that.

"That would be too high a price," said Princess Elena softly, her eyes following Arthur in concern as he took off his cloak and jacket, handing them to Merlin.

Then he headed over to the circular board where the Gleeman was waiting for him. Giving a crowd a reassuring smile, he placed himself against the board. The Gleeman and the stunted one named Geldred strapped his ankles and wrists to the restrains on the board.

"Do not fear, my lord," said the Gleeman with a faint smile. "I never miss my target."

For some reason, that didn't sound reassuring at all, especially if the Gleeman and his troupe had anything to do with King Odin, as Princess Mithian had indicated. But Arthur couldn't back off now, not any more. Not without losing the respect of the entire court.

"Good," was all he said, not without a certain amount of sarcasm. "Glad to hear it." But his eyes sought out Merlin, who stood in clear line of sight, his narrow face pale and intent. That calmed him slightly. He wasn't sure what exactly a Dragonlord could do – beyond the bending of dragons to his will, which was no small feat, of course – but Merlin had been his good luck charm in the last three years, and he hoped their luck would hold just a little longer.

The Gleeman now pulled out an apple and turned to Arthur. "May I?"

"What?" before Arthur could object, the Gleeman placed the apple in his mouth, and then nodded to Geldred. The stunted one gave the wheel a push and it started to spin, with the crowd "Oh"-ing and "Ah"-ing in excitement.

Arthur found that he didn't like spinning on the board at all. It made him feel dizzy and a little nauseous. The juice of the apple dripping into his throat wasn't helping, either. He hoped he wouldn't suffocate from it before this whole stupid stunt was over.

Another stunted person now presented the case of knives to the Gleeman. He held one of the blades up for the crowd to see. Then he suddenly turned and threw the knife at Arthur, without even stopping to take aim. It thudded into the board, barely an inch from Arthur's face. A huge gasp went up from the crowd, followed by a round of applause. King Alined was clearly impressed, and even Count Wulfred gave a nod of appreciation.

"A sharp knife is no good without a sharp eye," he said.

Gwen let out a breath, her bosom heaving, and buried her face in her hands.

Princess Iseult rolled her eyes. "Men and their sharp objects," she commented in tolerant amusement. "They never truly grow up."

Sir Tristan gave her a look of mock hurt, but she ignored him because the Gleeman now took the next knife from the case, throwing it suddenly while the tension grew. It flew through the air, humming like a swarm of angry bees, and thudded into the board on the other side of Arthur's head. Another round of applause arose. Gwen closed her eyes and turned her head away for a moment in relief.

The Gleeman took the final knife from the case, waving it at King Alined who was applauding gleefully. Alined nodded encouragingly for him to throw it. Gwen didn't even dare to breathe as the Gleeman prepared to throw the knife, this time taking aim carefully, her eyes fixed on Arthur's face in anguish. Merlin moved surreptitiously closer, ready to intervene if he had to… and he had the feeling that his magic would be needed this time.

The Gleeman threw the knife. It flew with deadly accuracy right at Arthur's face. Merlin's eyes glowed briefly, and the knife began spinning in the air, which slowed it down considerably through this but kept its course nonetheless. One could hear the blade slice into something that wasn't wood, and the crowd gasped and held its collective breath for a moment. The wheel slowed to a stop… and everyone could see the knife struck straight into the apple.

The Hall erupted in applause and Merlin felt his legs turning into jelly. He hadn't been sure that the trick would work but he didn't dare to try anything more… spectacular in front of the entire court. That he'd calculated the speed and direction of the knife correctly was a relief. He hoped he'd never have to take such a risk with Arthur's life ever again. This had been a close call. Way too close.

"You did well," said a voice behind him, and he turned to look in the eyes of Morris.

"I don't know what you mean," he replied evasively. Uther's old manservant shook his head.

"Merlin," he said patiently. "I didn't ask _what_ you did or _how_ you did it. But I know that a knife so razor-sharp, thrown with such a force, would have Prince Arthur in the throat – even _through_ that apple. Whatever you did, it saved his life… again. Don't worry; I won't breathe a word of this, not even to the Prince himself – just keep him safe, will you?"

Merlin nodded, slightly dumbfounded, but he couldn't answer, because Arthur was coming back, tossing the apple and catching it to take a healthy bite from it.

"See, Merlin?" he said, chewing his mouthful of apple noisily. "Nothing to worry about."

Merlin just shook his head in exasperation.

On the other end of the Hall, the Gleeman was having a quiet word with Geldred.

"This is not how it was supposed to happen," said the stunted one anxiously. "King Alined is _not_ happy with us."

The Gleeman shrugged. "So what? We do not serve Alined. He was merely our means to get into Camelot."

"But our master wants the Prince dead, too," pointed out Geldred. "More than Alined, in fact."

The Gleeman shrugged again. "We're not done yet. That's what the contingency plan is for. In a few hours, the sleeping draught on the apple will begin to take effect. The Prince will be defenceless. Then we will strike."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The celebration went on well beyond midnight, when Arthur finally declared that he was going to retire, admitting fatigue after all the excitement of the day. The guests, fairly drunk by then, did not truly care whether he left or stayed. Only Gwen was a little miffed, as this meant she would have to leave, too; she would have preferred to enjoy her victory a little longer.

"I am tired, Guinevere, surely you can understand that," repeated Arthur, yawning. "I'll just briefly visit my father, and then go to bed."

"He made it adamantly clear that he doesn't want to see you," Gwen reminded him.

"But _I_ want to see _him_ , and I've been kept from seeing him long enough," replied Arthur stubbornly. "He may not approve of my choice but he is still my father and I still love him," he looked around. "Merlin, we are leaving."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" asked Merlin doubtfully. "You can barely stand up."

Arthur gave him a very unconvincing death glare. "Are you saying I'm drunk?"

"No," said Merlin seriously. "I wouldn't be worrying if you were, but I happen to know that you haven't had nearly enough wine for _that_. Which is why I'm saying I don't think you should be wandering around the palace, as unsteady as you appear to be."

At any other time, Arthur might have listened to him, if only for the utter seriousness of his tone. But whatever was clouding the Prince's mind, tonight, it also made him very un-cooperative.

"You can come and pick me up in half an hour if you can't help being such a mother hen," he said dismissively and staggered off in the direction of his father's quarters.

Merlin stared after him in frustration. "I might do just that," he muttered angrily, heading towards Gaius's room. "You royal prat; why can't you be reasonable, just sometimes, for a change?"

As soon as he disappeared around the corner, the Gleeman emerged from the shadows, followed by one of the strong men of his troupe: a big hunk of a man, with arms like tree-trunks, rivalling those of Sir Percival; his face was still painted chalk white, with kohl-rimmed eyes, as he had appeared during the performance. He was also still wearing the gauntlets and wrist-guards he had used to break the chains.

They followed Arthur from a distance, watching as the Prince passed the two guards outside the doors to King Uther's chambers. He was obviously struggling to keep his eyes open, yawning all the time in the process. The guards, too, were watching him, their attention momentarily distracted. The strong man used the chance to creep up behind them, grabbed the head of the closer one and broke his neck with a short, powerful yank to the side. The other one went down simultaneously, with one of the Gleeman's throwing knives in his heart.

The Gleeman gestured his man to stay behind and watch the door. Then he stepped up to the dead guards and drew one of their swords before heading inside.

Entering the King's chambers, Arthur found his father sitting in a big chair, sleeping peacefully. An empty wine goblet was hanging from his hand in a precarious angle, ready to drop at any moment. Arthur took the goblet from the slack fingers of his father and put it on the table. Then he sank into a chair opposite Uther, simply enjoying being with his father, without arguments or accusations. He tried to fight the weariness he felt seeping over him, but it clearly was a losing battle.

Outside the door the Gleeman stepped over the two guards he and his henchman had just killed and entered the royal chambers with the naked sword in his hand.

Arthur was drifting off into sleep, struggling to focus on his father. He had the odd feeling that he might not get another such chance. But keeping focused was getting increasingly difficult. His head lolled… a fact that saved his life, as he caught a glimpse of a man slipping into the room, sword drawn. He managed to draw his own sword just in time to parry the blow as the man – the Gleeman, his foggy brain realised, it was the leader of the circus troupe – struck.

He all but spilled out of his chair and staggered backwards. He felt dizzy and disoriented; staying on his wobbly legs alone proved a challenge. He tried to call out for the guards but his voice was so weak he barely heard himself.

In the meantime, the Gleeman attacked again, and it was obvious that whatever else he might have been, he was an excellent swordsman. In his weakened state, Arthur barely managed to fight off the attack. His sword was knocked out of his hand with frightening ease and thrown across the room. He collapsed to his knees from the sheer force of that blow, unable to clamber to his feet again. Never in his life had he felt so utterly powerless.

"Good-bye, Arthur Pendragon," said the Gleeman with malevolent satisfaction.

Standing over the helpless Arthur, he raised his sword, ready to strike… but his blow was blocked by a sword. To his shocked surprise, he saw an enraged Uther Pendragon standing there, with Arthur's sword in his hand.

"It w-will t-take more t-than a c-coward like you t-to k-kill my son!" Uther growled, his speech mumbled from his recent brain seizure, but his eyes clear and furious.

The Gleeman whirled around to strike; Uther blocked the blow. They traded a series of ferocious blows, but it soon became obvious that Uther had deteriorated in more than just his speech. His attacks, while ferocious, were also uncoordinated, and he was beaten back by his skilled adversary and only narrowly escaped being killed.

Arthur did try to get to his feet and go to his father's aid, but he was too drowsy and collapsed back on the floor. Uther's attacks were having less and less effect as his arm grew tired, and the Gleeman easily deflected the blows. He was just toying with Uther now.

"Have you anything to say to your son before I kill him?" he taunted cruelly.

Uther and Arthur exchanged helpless looks, both clearly beaten. Then, unexpectedly, the old fire rose within the King one more time, overcoming the weakness of his body. He attacked with renewed ferocity, taking the Gleeman by surprise, delivering blow after blow to him, forcing the Gleeman back, until he managed to knock the sword from the assassin's hand.

Arthur watched, spellbound, the resurfacing of the strong King he had always known as his father as Uther prepared to deliver the fatal blow. As if the empty shell he had been in recent months had never existed. But the Gleeman was not giving up just yet. He suddenly drew a knife and lunged at Uther, in the very moment as the King thrust his sword.

Arthur felt immensely relieved seeing that his father had been faster; the Gleeman sank to the floor, obviously dead. But Uther, too, looked weak and confused again. His legs buckled, and Arthur realised that something was very wrong.

"Father?" he struggled over to catch the King before collapsing. As he helped his father to lie down on the bed, he was horrified to see blood staining Uther's robes.

The Gleeman _had_ got him, after all.

"No…" Arthur choked, trying to call out to the guards again, but to no end. He stood. "I'll go and get help."

But Uther caught his hand. "Stay with me."

"I'm here, Father," Arthur ruthlessly suppressed his tears and called out again. "Guards! Someone! We need help!"

The door was flung open and Arthur was beginning to sigh with relief when he realised that it wasn't really help that had arrived. With an inhuman howl, the strong man from the circus troupe stormed into the King's chambers, the sword seeming like a mere eating knife in his huge paw.

Arthur knew with frightening clarity that he was about to die. He was still too dizzy to reach his sword – still sticking in the Gleeman's dead body – in time, and his father could no longer help him, because his father was _dying_. They would both die, before they could make their peace, and then Camelot would fall…

Yet before the strong man could have laid hands on him, there was a hiss like that of an angry snake, sounding vaguely like _Hleap on baec!_ , and the giant of a man was flung backward, crashing against the wall, rendered unconscious… or perhaps dead, in any case his head was broken.

Staring at the open door in disbelief, Arthur was just in time to see Merlin's eyes turn back from molten gold to brilliant blue.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Merlin had not been sanguine about letting Arthur wander the empty corridors of the castle on his own to begin with. Not with King Alined's merry troupe on the loose. The warning of Morris had only made him more anxious, so he decided _not_ to wait till the half hour he and Arthur had agreed in to be over. He turned to Uther's chambers immediately.

What he found there made him glad he hadn't waited. He cast the spell without thinking… without realising that he was revealing himself to both Arthur _and_ Uther. Arthur knew half of the truth already; he knew Merlin was the last Dragonlord. He would accept that Merlin was more than just that. Eventually.

Or so Merlin hoped.

Uther seeing him using magic would have been a much more serious problem… under normal circumstances. After all, Uther Pendragon was still King of Camelot, at least nominally, and his word was still the law, despite his current state of body and mind. He could still have Merlin beheaded. Or burned on the stake.

Fortunately for Merlin, right now Uther had only eyes for his son.

"Don't… cry," he sighed, though Arthur was _not_ crying, not visibly anyway. "It is my time… and I am ready to go. To see… your mother… again."

"No!" Arthur protested desperately. "You can't die!"

Uther waved his protest aside with a weak hand. "I know… you will make me proud… as you always have…. Even if you… defied… my orders to… to do what you believed… was right. You will be… a great King."

"I'm not ready!" Arthur protested again, and again, Uther waved his protest aside.

"You've been ready for… some time, Arthur… and you chose… your counsellors wisely,"

"No!" I need you!" Arthur insisted.

Uther shook his head weakly. "I know… I've not bee a… a good father. I… I always put my duty to… to Camelot first. I am… sorry."

"Don't say that!" murmured Arthur tearfully.

Uther gripped his hand with all his remaining strength. "But know… this one thing. I always… loved you."

With that, Uther's eyes slowly closed and he lost consciousness. Arthur was horrified.

"No… Father… Father!" but he was barely able to focus. Merlin touched his shoulder.

"Leave him to Gaius and me," the young servant said. "I'll have him fetched at once. But you need to sit down. You clearly have been given some sort of sleeping potion; I suppose it was in that apple."

"Why did the guards not come?" demanded Arthur, allowing Merlin to lower him into his father's great chair. "I've called them repeatedly."

"They are dead," replied Merlin grimly. "One of them had his neck broken; no question who did that. The other one has been killed with a throwing knife. Now, stay quiet for a moment until I send for Gaius, and we see what we can do for your father."

Arthur gave him a sharp look.

"He would have you beheaded or burned on the stake for what you've just done," he said. "And you'd still want to help him? Why?"

"Because he is your _father_ ," answered Merlin simply. "Now, let me help him, will you?"

"We're going to talk about _this_ ," promised Arthur darkly. "Long and in all the gory details."

"Yes, but not when I have more important things to do," returned Merlin dismissively.

Then he went to send somebody to fetch Gaius.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Hours later, Gaius was still tending to the wounded King in his chambers… to no visible effect. Uther was still unconscious and very, very weak – and close to death. Arthur watched the old man's efforts with growing despair.

"Can you save him?" he all but begged.

"The blade has touched his heart," answered Gaius with a heavy sigh. "He is bleeding inside."

The possibility of losing the King burdened him, too. They were as close to being friends as it was possible for a King and a mere commoner. Arthur, however, was not about to accept that possibility just yet.

"There must be _something_ … there must be something you can do," he insisted. "Please, Gaius!"

But Gaius just shook his head sadly. "It is just a matter of time, I'm afraid. I'm sorry, Arthur."

Arthur's youthful features hardened into a determined mask.

"I'm not letting him die; not before we've tried everything to save him," he said. "And I mean _everything_. In the meantime, I want to know if King Alined was part of this assassination attempt in any way. Because if he was, he shan't leave Camelot alive."

"That could lead to war with Cameliand," warned Sir Ector.

Arthur shrugged. "So be it. When has any good come from Cameliand anyway?"

"But sire, the Quest!" reminded him Sir Leon. "You are meant to choose your champions and set off, soon. Or else it will be too late for Camelot."

"I'm _not_ leaving my father behind as long as his fate has not been decided, and the culprit behind the attempt on my life found," snapped Arthur.

Sir Leon bowed. "I'll see into it, sire," he promised before leaving.

"See that you do," muttered Arthur. "The rest of you… leave me. I want to be alone with my father."

The knights and court nobles were loath to leave but they could hardly disobey a direct order from someone who'd soon be their King. So they left. Only Gaius remained at Uther's bedside and, hidden behind a curtain, Merlin.

This promised to be a long and comfortless time till dawn.


	21. The King is Dead, Long Live the King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, some parts of this chapter came from the 4th season episode "The Wicked Day". Including the spells and a few lines of dialogue.
> 
> Beta read by my dear friend Linda Hoyland, thanks.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 21 – THE KING IS DEAD, LONG LIVE THE KING  
**  
It was in the third hour of the next day – with Uther still breathing – when Sir Ector and Sir Leon reported the results of their investigation to Arthur who was just staring blankly, shaken to the bone by the enormity of the previous night's events.

"We traced the assassin to the town of Wenham," Sir Ector began.

"That is in Odin's land," said Arthur with a frown. Sir Ector nodded.

"It seems he hired the man to kill you to avenge the death of his son," he replied,

"Just like last time," added Sir Leon. "The man is obsessed."

"So Alined had no part in this?" asked Arthur.

The knight shook his head. "None beyond allowing the performers to join his entourage; which might have something to do with some pretty and very willing wenches among them."

"Sounds like Alined all right," commented Arthur mirthlessly. "What about the rest of the troupe? Were they all involved?"

"We believe the assassin had another accomplice among the performers – namely the dwarf Geldred – but that one has already fled the city," answered Sir Leon. "We have doubled the guard, should there be another attempt on your life."

Arthur nodded, not really caring. "And the strong man Merlin knocked out?" he was still not ready to deal with Merlin and his many secrets, so it was better to pretend that nothing unusual had happened.

"In the dungeon, under double guard," replied Sir Leon.

"Good," Arthur said. "I want him hanged, here, right in front of the palace. I want all our enemies know that there will be no mercy for assassins."

Sir Leon nodded without much ado. It was the law, after all. Whoever tried to murder a member of the royal family paid with their life. Sir Ector, however, seemed to understand Arthur's mood. He placed a comforting hand on the young Prince's shoulder.

"Everyone's thoughts are with you, Arthur. But if there's anything _I can_ do…"

Arthur gave him the ghost of a grateful smile. "Your support means a great deal to me, Sir Ector; yours and Kay's. Thank you."

Sir Ector simply nodded and headed out, with Leon in trail, passing the incoming Merlin as they left. Arthur turned to Merlin immediately.

"What news of my father?" he asked.

"There is no change," answered Merlin sadly.

"Well, why isn't Gaius doing something then?" Arthur snapped.

"Because there is nothing he can do," replied Merlin. Arthur gave him an odd look.

"Is there anything _you_ can do then?" he asked. Merlin looked at him searchingly.

"It depends," he said carefully.

"Depends on _what_?" demanded Arthur.

"On how far you are truly willing to go to save your father," replied Merlin.

"I've already told you: I'm willing to do everything… _anything_ to keep him alive," said Arthur. "Can you heal him?"

Merlin shook his head. "I've never been good with healing spells," he admitted. "But I can find for you somebody who excels at them – _if_ you swear that they won't be harmed, no matter the outcome."

Arthur looked at him in suspicion. "Why would you want to have my word on that?"

"Because some wounds cannot be healed, not even by magic," answered Merlin simply. "And I don't want anyone punished, should your father's wound prove to be one of those."

"Very well," said Arthur after a moment of consideration. "Whomever you might find, I'll guarantee their safety. You have my word. Just find them quickly."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After his discussion with Merlin Arthur returned to the bedside of his father, wishing to spend whatever time they might have left with him. He was mildly surprised to find Gwen there. She was changing the dressing on Uther's wound, apparently having sent Hunith away to rest for a while. Arthur was deeply touched by the gesture.

"I…" he cleared his throat briefly. "I appreciate your kindness…. Everything you're doing for him. Even though you know he'd never give his blessing to our marriage."

Gwen shook her head. "I'm doing it for _you_. Tom Blacksmith may not have been my natural father, but he _was_ like a father to me… so yes, I know what it is like to lose a doting father and would spare you the pain if I can. Unfortunately, there is little chance for that."

Arthur nodded. "I'm sorry that he was the reason for your loss, but… I can't watch him die. There's so much I want to say him… He cannot die," he walked to the window and looked down at the square where the townspeople were holding a candle-lit vigil. "What's going on?" he asked in surprise.

Gwen crossed the room to stand with him. "It's a vigil for your father," she explained. "The people want to share their grief. They did the same when _you_ were at death's door, after your encounter with the Questing Beast."

Arthur frowned. "Why are they behaving like he's already dead when there's still life in his body?"

Gwen laid a comforting hand upon his forearm. "They're preparing themselves for the worst," she suggested gently.

Arthur squared his shoulders. " _They_ can give up hope; but _I won't_ ," he declared.

"I know it's hard to accept, and I wish it wasn't so," she said patiently. "But there's really nothing that can be done. Gaius said so, and you know he's never wrong."

"He is wrong, in this case," replied Arthur stubbornly. "There _is_ a way to heal my father still."

Gwen raised a questioning eyebrow. "How?"

Arthur hesitated for a moment, then he fixed her with a poignant look. "With magic. Merlin promised to find somebody who can cast some powerful healing spells. I guaranteed their safety, no matter the outcome."

Gwen was utterly stunned as she took this in. "Do you think your father is going to thank you for having healed him with magic? He's more likely to have your sorcerer hanged… and _you_ thrown into the dungeons."

"But he would have to be alive to try doing so," pointed out Arthur with the hope of the truly desperate in his eyes. "And I'll have the sorcerer out of Camelot before he can fully understand what's happened." Gwen tried to say something but he silenced her with an imperious gesture. "No, Guinevere. Don't try to stop me… because you can't."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Merlin found Gaius in Princess Elena's quarters, where the old physician was visiting with Mistress Alice, while the Princess herself spent some time with her fellow ladies, Iseult, Mithian and Vivian. Needless to say that Gaius and Alice were both shocked when Merlin told them of Arthur's plan.

" _Arthur_ is planning on using _magic_?" repeated Gaius in disbelief.

Merlin shrugged. "He's desperate. He knows this is the only hope of healing Uther."

Gaius gave him a withering look. "Merlin, please tell me you're not doing this!"

Merlin grinned at him. "I'd be lying if I said _no_ ," then he turned to Mistress Alice. "But I cannot do this alone. Healing spells are not my forte. Will you help me?"

The old woman nodded. "I nearly killed Uther while under the spell of the Manticore. I owe it to him to at least give it a try."

"You are both insane!" exclaimed Gaius. "You can't risk exposing yourselves like this. It's too dangerous!"

Merlin shrugged again. "Arthur gave me his word that the healer won't be harmed, no matter what the outcome. And he might be a royal prat, but he takes his own word very seriously; you know that."

"He might reconsider if he recognizes Alice," said Gaius darkly.

"But why should he?" asked Mistress Alice. "We hardly even met; and one old hag is like another. If I use ashes to make my hair completely grey and my cheeks look more hollow, even you would have a hard time in recognizing me."

Gaius glared at her in stunned disbelief. "You are really willing to do this?"

Mistress Alice nodded. "I don't like being in debt; least so in that of my enemies. Besides, some good might come out of this all."

"Uther will never change his attitude towards magic," Merlin added. "But if Arthur allows it to be used to heal his father, _his_ attitude will be changed forever. He already knows I'm a Dragonlord; and he's seen me knocking out that strong man, using my powers. This way he will also see that magic can be a force for good."

Gaius shook his head in defeat. "You of all people should know that the use of powerful magic is fraught with danger… both of you should."

"If it works, I won't have to hide anymore," pointed out Merlin.

Gaius rolled his eyes. "And if it doesn't? I can't stand by and watch you do this… either of you."

"Arthur gave his word," Merlin reminded him. "And I for my part trust him to keep his promises. Now, why don't the two of you leaf through the books with the healing spells while I bring him the good news?"

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Arthur was waiting impatiently for Merlin's return, doing his best to ignore the myriad questions occupying his mind. It had been glaringly obvious since last night that Merlin was more than just a Dragonlord… if there was such a thing as _just_ a Dragonlord, that is. Clearly, Dragonlords must have been people of awesome powers, because honestly, bending a dragon to one's will required more than the skills of a hedge witch. And Merlin clearly had cast a powerful spell last night, smashing that huge brute against the wall as if he'd been swatting a fly.

Saving Arthur's life for the umpteenth time.

Arthur was wondering how often had Merlin used his hidden powers – he refused to think of them as _magic_ because if he acknowledged it he'd have to _do_ something about it, and the last thing he wanted to do was to have the idiot executed – to save him. To save Camelot. How often what he had thought to be incredible luck been actually Merlin, working his miracles in the background, unseen.

There were too many questions he needed to be answered before he could decide what to do with Merlin…

His door opened (without anyone having knocked, as usual) and the object of his thoughts walked in, looking cautiously hopeful. Arthur decided to see that as a good sign,

"Well?" he asked impatiently. "What did Gaius say? Did he have any information?"

"He doesn't know much," admitted Merlin. "But he has met a healer in the entourage of one of the royal guests; a very good one. Gaius thinks she may be able to help you."

" _She_?" echoed Arthur. "And who may _she_ be?"

Merlin shrugged. "I've told you: there are no guarantees. Your father's wound is lethal. But she is skilled and experienced, and she'll try her best. She and Gaius are already searching the old books for the most powerful healing spells; and I'll be lending her my strength if I have to."

For an endless moment Arthur said nothing. Then he nodded abruptly.

"Once this is over, we'll have a very long discussion, you and I," he said. "I have questions; and if you want me to trust you ever again, you'll have to answer then truthfully."

"I will," replied Merlin simply. "I'm tired of hiding anyway."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Leaving the wounded King in Hunith's excellent care once again, Gwen left the Citadel, heading for the lower town. It was high time that she and Elyan spoke. She could not afford to lose the support of her own brother – even if it was only a half-brother. She had enough naysayers at court already, and Elyan was beloved. People would take their cue from him… especially the knights. If she wanted their respect, she _had_ to make Elyan change his mind and return to the court, no matter what.

She was about to turn into the street where Tom Blacksmith's – now Elyan's – smithy stood when somebody called her name. It was a quiet, subdued voice, that of a young girl. She turned around and saw a slender figure in the shadows, wearing the usual rough, brown cloak of the Druids.

"Who are you?" she asked. "What do you want from me?"

"My name is Kara," the girl replied. "And I want to help you."

"Help me with what?" Gwen was not about to trust a complete stranger easily.

The girl came closer and now Gwen could see her pale, pretty face in the shadow of her wide hood.

"To become the Queen of Camelot," she whispered."

Gwen gave her an imperious look. "I'm already going to be Queen of Camelot."

"Not if King Uther recovers," whispered the girl. "And right now, there _is_ someone in Camelot who might be able to heal him."

"But Gaius already told Arthur there's nothing he could do," said Gwen with a frown. "Not without magic; and I doubt that the old man's tricks would be enough."

"They would not," agreed the girl. "But we have heard that Mistress Alice is in Camelot again, and _she_ can do many things others cannot. Right now she is the greatest healer in the Five Kingdoms. We must see to it that she fails."

"How?" asked Gwen with morbid fascination.

She _had_ tested her own modest skills ever since she's learned about her true heritage, but she never got any further than the simplest, mostly harmless love spells. She simply had not inherited enough from her powerful father.

"Come and see," the girl said and Gwen followed her into a small cottage on the left.

Inside, a small fire was burning in a three-legged cast iron brazier. The girl – Kara – shrugged off her cloak and hung it on a peg next to the door. Underneath she wore a simple gown of rough, homespun wool. Her rich brown hair was arrayed in attractive plaits and tresses… actually, she was quite lovely. She could have blended in as a lady's maid, if only better dressed.

"This used to be Forridel's house," she said conversationally, sorting the boxes on the shelf. "When she had to flee, it stood empty for a while… a shame, really, as she was the best herbalist among us. We have used the house since then time and again, as the need arose."

She finally found the right box, opened it and took out a tiny silver charm. She cast it into the fire and incanted a spell, barely louder than a whisper.

" _Seolforpraed apringe wiustra, apringe wip eallae gode craefte_ ," she muttered in the ancient, harsh-sounding language of the Old Religion.

The flames suddenly flared, the firelight danced in her eyes… and Gwen was scared. _Really_ scared. She knew she'd never be able to cast such a powerful spell – she did not know _what_ it had been, but she could feel its power.

The girl took a pair of tongs and pulled the charm from the raging fire. She then turned to Gwen and unceremoniously dropped the charm into Gwen's palm. Gwen instinctively reached out to catch it, before realising the danger of what she'd just done – and was surprised.

"It's cold…"

The girl nodded. "It has been bound to the left hand path."

"Which means… what exactly?" asked Gwen.

"The force of any healing magic will be reversed and magnified tenfold," explained the girl. "You must place the charm around King Uther's neck, as close to his heart as possible. That way, by trying to cure his father, Prince Arthur will seal his fate."

"Arthur will never forgive himself," murmured Gwen, suddenly feeling guilty. "He'll be destroyed."

"And a broken Prince will make a weak King," the girl replied in dark satisfaction. "Which means he will need a strong Queen on his side."

Gwen shook her head doubtfully. "I'm still not sure we're doing the right thing. This _is_ murder, after all… in a way."

The seemingly innocent blue eyes of the girl became cold and hard like ice.

"It is not a crime to fight for our freedom," she said. "It is not a crime to fight for the right to be who we are; and _you_ are one of us. Uther Pendragon deserves everything that is coming to him."

"But it is Arthur who will suffer," pointed out Gwen.

"He will have you to comfort him; and he will _need_ you more with each passing day to do so," replied the girl. "You may not have much natural power but you have wielded your love spells with great skill. If you don't make any foolish mistakes – like falling for another man – this charm will ensure your future as the Queen of Camelot. The question is: do you have the will to use it?"

For a moment, Gwen remained silent. The she closed her hand around the charm in determination.

"I do," she said grimly.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In Gaius's chambers, he and Mistress Alice were cooking up some kind of concoction while Merlin was looking through several books at once in his own room, failing to find what he was looking for.

"Great," he muttered in utter disgust. "I promised Arthur we could heal his father, and I can't even find the right spell!"

"That's because you're reading the wrong books," said Mistress Alice placidly.

"Here," Gaius walked over to Merlin and held out a small leather tome. "Gwillem of Cumbria was as mad as a coot, but there has never been a better healer… until Alice here, that is."

"Flatterer," Mistress Alice smiled, her attention fixed on the bubbling concoction on the brazier.

Merlin grinned happily. "Thank you, Gaius! How is the medicine doing?"

"It's almost ready," answered Mistress Alice. "We can start shortly."

"Remember: you must only give him four drops," Gaius warned her.

Mistress Alice rolled her eyes. "Do you really think you must remind _me_?" Then she became deadly serious again. "I'm glad Merlin offered to come with me, though. A healing spell like this could be too powerful for an old woman like me."

"Let's hope I can remember the spell," commented Merlin, only half-joking.

Gaius raised a bushy eyebrow. "You must trust your abilities, Merlin. We all do."

Merlin gave him one of those half-smiles. "No pressure then, eh? Well, I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

"So am I," replied Mistress Alice, stoppering the vial she'd just filled with the dangerous concoction. "Let us go before either of us changes their mind."

When they reached Uther's chambers, they found Arthur and Gwen already there. Uther lay in bed, looking deathly pale, barely breathing. Arthur was holding his father's hand and looked up at Merlin in surprise.

"What are _you_ doing here? I thought you weren't a healer."

"I'm not," replied Merlin calmly. "Mistress Alys, Princess Elena's healer is going to do that part. I'm just here for the spell."

"Please move to the side, sire," said Mistress Alice. "We need room to work."

Arthur stepped to the side, drawing Gwen with him, and the two watched, wide-eyed, as the old woman was carefully placing four drops of hogswart on Uther's lips, while Gaius held a branch of sage over him. As soon as the medicine was given, Gaius nodded to Merlin, who stepped closer, extending a hand, ready to cast the spell, his eyes turning into a glow of molten gold… and Arthur suddenly became anxious.

"Merlin… wait!"

Merlin's eyes turned back to their usual, brilliant blue. "Is something wrong?"

Arthur hesitated. "It's just… my father has taught me never to trust magic, and now I'm using it to save him…"

Merlin raised an amused eyebrow. "Your own life has been saved using magic more time than you can possibly imagine. Or did you really think you just have been very lucky in the last four years?"

Arthur stared at him in confusion. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Later," Merlin waved off his question. "Let's just say that magic is all around you. It is woven into the very fabric of the world."

That piece of information seemed to unsettle Arthur even more. "How can I be sure it's the right thing to do, though?"

"You cannot," answered Merlin simply. "We never know until we have tried; whatever decisions we make, we can but hope that they will be the right ones. _I_ cannot be sure that this will work, either – but can you truly afford _not_ to give it a try? I wish only to show you that magic can be used for good. That we are not all like Morgause. Or Morgana. Please, allow me to try. What do you have to lose?"

If they didn't, Uther would die. If they did, there was a slight chance that he might survive. Arthur knew that. He nodded reluctantly.

"All right, then," Merlin took a deep breath, turned back to Uther, stretched out his hand and his eyes began to glow again as he cast the spell in a hoarse whisper.

" _Efencume aetgaedre, eala gastas craeftige; gestiere pis lic forod_."

The enormity of the moment – the fact that his supposedly idiot manservant was performing a ritual of powerful magic over his near-dead father, in his presence and with his approval – no, at his _request_! – did not go entirely unnoticed by Arthur. Nonetheless, the major part of his attention was focused on Uther, in the desperate hope of seeing some sign of life.

For a long, terse moment it seemed as if the spell had failed, and Merlin was growing anxious. What if they had made a mistake? What if the hogswart concoction was too strong… or not strong enough? What if he hadn't remembered the spell correctly? This was his first and perhaps last chance to change Arthur's attitude towards magic and its users. He could not, must not afford to fail. Too much was at stake.

Suddenly, Uther's eyes snapped open. Arthur was the first to notice.

"Father! Father!" he cried out, overjoyed, and the two clinched hands.

Uther managed a weak smile. "Arthur…"

Arthur laughed in relief. Merlin, too, all but collapsed at the King's bedside as the nervous tension left him. He felt like a puppet whose stings had been cut. Yet as Uther was looking up at Arthur, his face suddenly contorted in pain. His breath started to fail, right before the horrified eyes of his son.

"What's happening?" Arthur demanded from Gaius.

"I don't know…" the old physician set aside the still smoking sage branch, just at the moment when Uther went still. He felt for a pulse… and found none. "He's dead."

Arthur shook his head in despair, unable and unwilling to accept it.

"No… He can't be… Father!" he grabbed Uther's shoulders and shook him, as if he'd wanted to wake his father up. When he finally realised the futility of his action, he whirled around and glared at Mistress Alice in black rage. "What have you done?"

Mistress Alice shook her head in confusion. "I don't understand," she said. "This was not supposed to happen."

"You killed him!" Arthur raged. "Merlin promised me that you'd heal him, and you killed him… poisoned him! You'll die for what you've done!"

He drew his sword and advanced on Mistress Alice menacingly but Merlin, with just a glint of gold in his eyes, stopped him with an outstretched hand and an immobilizing spell.

" _Mod waes craeftles_ ," he said, and Arthur felt a strange lethargy overcome him. He could not go on, he could not raise his sword; even standing on his own felt exhausting.

"Good," Merlin said. "Now, stop being such a clotpole and listen to me. I've told you at the beginning that this might not work. But Mistress Alys did not poison your father. Gaius and I were present while she brewed that concoction. There's nothing in it that doesn't belong. And the spell was working, too. I'm sure of it. I did everything right. I don't know what could possibly have gone wrong."

"I think I do," said Gaius grimly. He reached down where Uther's robes had been opened from Arthur having shaken him, and pulled the neck of his nightshirt further apart, revealing a small silver charm around the dead King's neck.

"What is this?" asked Merlin in surprise. "I've never seen anything like this."

"I have," said Mistress Alice sadly. "It's an ancient healer's charm… but enchanted with a repelling spell."

"Such an enchantment would reverse the effects of your healing spell," added Gaius. "Uther didn't stand a chance."

"But who would do such a thing?" asked Merlin. "Morgana has been quiet since her defeat, and only Gwen and my mother have entered the King's chambers on their own."

"That we know of," Gaius covered Uther's face with a sheet; neither of them noticed Gwen going ash grey with fear in the background. "We must question the guards carefully. The Citadel is full of guests; the murderer could have hidden among their entourage easily."

Merlin nodded. "I'm sure Sir Bedivere will do his best. Go now, both of you, before I release his royal pratliness from the spell. He's going to be in a foul mood."

"Perhaps you should plan an escape route, too," suggested Gaius.

Merlin shook his head. "No need for that. Now that Arthur knows the truth, I can afford to protect myself. But I don't want anyone else to get hurt. Go with them, Gwen!"

"Arthur needs me!" protested Gwen, not wanting to lose her advantage.

"He will; but he does not at this moment," replied Merlin. "He needs to grieve… without distraction. Go. All of you."

There was such authority in his voice that all three of them obeyed without further argument. Only when the door closed behind them did Merlin release Arthur from the spell – and helped him into the chair at his father's bedside.

"I am sorry," he offered. "I was so sure that we can heal him… and we would have, if it hadn't been for the charm."

Arthur nodded wearily. "Can you find out who made it?" he asked.

"I could try," answered Merlin cautiously. "But that would include… er… _magic_?"

"What difference does it make now?" Arthur shrugged in defeat. "Whether it is good or pure evil, I've lost both my parents to magic. We can as well put it to use to find the person who's made this… this _thing_."

"I'll take it with me and try to do some scrying," promised Merlin.

Arthur nodded. "Do so. And now leave me alone with my father."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The next morning found Uther Pendragon lying in state upon a raised dais in the centre of Camelot's throne room, surrounded by burning candles. Gaius had the body removed from the King's chambers during the night, washed it with the help of Hunith and that of the faithful Morris and clad it in sombre royal splendour.

Merlin had refused to leave Arthur alone and spent the night sitting in front of his door, in case he should be needed, and Arthur was touched when he came out at daybreak and found him sitting on the stone floor, his back against the railing.

"Have you been here all night?" he asked. His eyes were dry, his entire attitude calm, composed, almost serene.

Merlin shrugged. "I didn't want you to feel that you were alone," he replied simply.

Arthur swallowed hard. "You are a loyal friend, Merlin."

"Even though I am a warlock?" asked Merlin. "Even if I killed your father by the very means I tried to save him?"

Arthur sighed. "You did not kill my father, _Mer_ lin. His spirit already died when Morgana broke his heart; the Gleeman's sword did the rest and whoever enchanted that charm finished him. You only tried to help; it wasn't your fault."

Merlin watched him warily. "When did you become so wise? So… tempered?"

"When I realised that I won't have any more delay," replied Arthur with a mirthless smile. "I _must_ progress to the throne, and I must see that peace and prosperity return to the land. Camelot has suffered enough," he gave Merlin a wry look. "I'll need you more than ever; now that I know you are my secret weapon against Morgana. She may be lying low for the moment, but she'll be back. Of that I'm sure."

Merlin nodded because he knew that was true. "My hands will be tied as long as magic is still outlawed, though," he pointed out."

Arthur nodded. "I know that. But you must understand how hard this is for me: to rearrange everything I've been taught in my mind. My father spent twenty years fighting magic. I was arrogant enough to think I knew better. That arrogance has cost my father his life."

"Haven't you told me just a moment ago that it wasn't my magic that killed your father?" reminded him Merlin gently.

"Not _yours_ ," Arthur allowed. "But it _was_ magic that killed him."

" _And_ a sword," said Merlin. "Are you going to have every sword in the kingdom destroyed because of it?"

"That's not the same," argued the Prince. "A sword is just a weapon… a tool…"

"So is magic," returned Merlin. "It's neither good nor bad in itself. It depends on who uses it… and for what."

"Only that everyone can learn how to wield a sword," Arthur began… then he drifted off, remembering his own futile efforts to teach Merlin the basics of proper sword-fighting. "Except the hopeless cases," he added, grinning involuntarily.

Merlin nodded. "Exactly. And like with sword-fighting, some are better at wielding magic than others."

"Are you…?" Arthur asked a little doubtfully. Merlin nodded again.

"I was born that way. For me, it wasn't even a choice. I could move things around with my mind before I would learn to crawl or to speak."

Arthur frowned. "I thought sorcerers must learn their trade for long years…"

"They do," Merlin agreed. "But I'm not a sorcerer. I'm a warlock; one of the very few who are born with their powers. I must also learn to use my gift properly, of course, and to hone it and unfold it – but I've had it from the moment my mother conceived me. Just like Morgana," he added after a moment of consideration.

"You mean Morgause," corrected Arthur, but Merlin shook his head.

"No. Morgause is… _was_ , I hope… a sorceress. A mighty one, admittedly, but she only knew what she was taught. Morgana, though… she is a witch. A powerful one, yet her gift has not been tempered and honed yet."

"Her dreams…" Arthur realised, and Merlin nodded.

"That was how her powers manifested at first. She was terrified by them, thought that something was wrong with her. Gaius's sleeping draughts couldn't do much against so much raw power in the long run."

"So she remains a threat," said Arthur thoughtfully.

"A grave one," Merlin agreed. "The Great Dragon has insisted from the very beginning that she should die for you and Camelot to be safe, but I… I couldn't do it. I felt sorry for her, thought her a kindred spirit… and a fat lot of good did it to us all. You see, you were not the only one arrogant enough to think you knew better."

"Perhaps," Arthur allowed. "But even if you could bring it over your heart to kill Morgana, Morgause would have risen against us eventually. She might have had a harder time to infiltrate Camelot, but she'd have found a way. And she was the one with the strong allies, living _or_ undead."

Merlin gave him a surprised look. "You have given this a lot of thought, I see."

Arthur shrugged. "I had all night. But to answer your question: I don't think I can lift the ban on magic just now. Hell, I don't know if I _want_ to do so," at Merlin's crestfallen expression he cracked a thin smile. "You must give me time to get used to all this, Merlin. I'm trying to go against the conditioning of my whole _life_ here. What I _can_ do – what I'm _willing_ to do – is to stop actively pursuing magic users. I won't have them executed as long as they haven't done any actual harm. Will that be enough?"

"It is a beginning," replied Merlin. "And as long as no innocents are executed, there is no need to hurry," he flashed Arthur a mischievous grin. "I'll try to remain… er… discreet where my powers are concerned. Keep saving your sorry life in secret and all that. Just like I used to."

"Idiot," said Arthur fondly. "You still have a great deal to tell and explain me. But we'll have ample time for that during the Quest," he looked at Merlin shrewdly. "What? No protests that I should leave such dangerous adventures to my knights?"

Merlin shook his head. "It is your Quest. Iseldir has made so much crystal clear. Besides, I'll go with you and keep an eye on you."

Arthur actually laughed at that. "You are such a mother hen, Merlin!"

"With you, I _have_ to be," Merlin retorted, and they both laughed, even though a little shakily. Then Arthur became deadly serious again.

"I still want to know where that enchanted charm came," he said.

"I'll do my best," promised Merlin.

Arthur nodded, closed the door of his father's bedchamber and too a deep breath. "Good. You must be hungry."

"Starving," admitted Merlin.

Arthur smiled faintly. "Me, too. Come on. You can make us some breakfast."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The day after the funeral of Uther Pendragon promised to be a beautiful one. The sun shone brightly as the guards took their positions and people from the lower town and from the outlying villages were heading up the palace steps to witness the crowning of the new King. On the cranellated walls of the Citadel pages stood, clad in the colours of the Pendragons, blowing their trumpets.

The throne room was packed with the royal visitors who had come to Arthur's betrothal feast and decided to stay for the coronation, with courtiers and with the Knights of Camelot and their families. Sir Ector was there, with Sir Kay at his elbow, Count Wulfred, the Princesses Elena and Iseult, Lady Vivian… even King Alined had chosen to stay, not that anyone would have missed him, had he left.

An air of excitement and anticipation filled the room as Arthur entered and headed towards the throne, where Geoffrey de Monmouth stood, with the crown in his hands. Upon reaching the throne, Arthur kneeled, facing the court genealogist.

"Will you solemnly promise to govern the peoples of Camelot according to their respective laws and customs?" asked Master Geoffrey.

"I solemnly swear so," replied Arthur in a steady voice that carried to the farthest corners of the throne room.

The scene was eerily reminiscent of his being crowned as Crown Prince, then as Prince Regent… he chose not to think of how close these events had been to each other. He could not afford to lose his calm in a moment of such importance.

"Will you to your power cause law and justice, in mercy to be executed in all your judgements?" continued Master Geoffrey.

"I will," replied Arthur.

"Then, by the sacred powers vested in me, I pronounce you Arthur, King of Camelot," Master Geoffrey placed the crown upon Arthur's head.

Arthur rose, turned around and looked out over the gathered court, uncertain what he should say now. Fortunately, Sir Ector came to his help.

"Long live the King!" he called out, and everyone joined the chant. "Long live the King!"

There was no feast after the coronation; just as there had been none after King Uther's funeral. Instead, the people of Camelot were treated to the hanging of the strong man who had killed the guard at King Uther's door. Whatever food could be spared that way was distributed among the people of the lover town and among the refugees, so at least _some_ had their joy in the whole event.

"Are you still determined to go on the Quest for the Grail, sire?" Sir Ector asked Arthur later in the afternoon. "After all, you are King of Camelot now."

"Which is one more reason why I should go," replied Arthur. "As the Fisher King said to Merlin, King and land can only heal together. And that I why I have to go and search for the Grail. A Pendragon has brought this evil over Camelot; it is up to a Pendragon to right it."

"And who will rule Camelot in your absence?" asked Sir Ector. "It is fortunate that you haven't married your… your chosen bride yet. I would be seriously concerned about the kingdom's future would an uneducated peasant with no experience be allowed to act as Ruling Queen. She may be of the blood of Taureen of Cameliand, but she was born and raised as a peasant and has neither the knowledge nor the finesse to rule. She'll have to put the betrothal year to good use if she wants to be accepted eventually… if ever."

"The common folk love her," said Arthur defensively.

Sir Ector nodded. "I'm sure they do. But it takes more to rule a kingdom than just be beloved by one's fellow peasants."

As much as he hated to do so, Arthur had to admit that Sir Ector was right.

"I hoped that you and Kay would be willing to rule in my name for the duration of the Quest," he said. "You as my Regent and Kay as Vice-Regent, with Sir Leon as the warlord of Camelot. He has vast experience; he has led our knights for years under my father's rule."

Sir Ector thought about that for a while.

"We can do it… for a time," he finally said. "But eventually, I'll have to return to the Marshes, even if Kay chooses to stay here and support you. I am _needed_ at home, to protect the eastern borders. One year is all I can give you… barely."

"And that should be enough," replied Arthur. "If we haven't found the Grail in a year's time, there will be no hope of saving Camelot."

Sir Ector nodded. "Then I shall say… until you return, with or without the Grail."


	22. The Muster of Camelot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To learn more about Sir Erec's decision google for "Erec and Enide".
> 
> Book One ends here. Book Two will describe the adventures of the various knights on the Grail Quest, while Book Three will show the power struggle for Camelot and its outcome... assuming I'll live long enough to actually _write_ those sequels.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Chapter 22 – The Muster of Camelot  
**  
Less than a week later the knights supposed to take part in the Grail Quest were mustered in Camelot. Sir Gwaine, Sir Bors and Lionel had already left with the entourage of Princess Elena. They were meant to ride with her until they reached the Castle of Gawant, from where they would continue to Dolorous Guard, to learn more about the mysterious knight that had lifted the curse of that place and see if they might be able to work out an alliance between him and Camelot.

As for the rest of the Knights of Camelot, naturally every single one of them volunteered – even Sir Leon, who knew he would be left behind anyway to protect the realm in Arthur's absence. The other one Arthur had asked to stay behind was Sir Geraint, whose wisdom and experience would be needed to support Sir Ector in ruling as Regent in Arthur's name.

As previously agreed, the volunteers were divided in three groups. One would go with Sir Percival, who had already been to the Grail Castle and was thought to have the best chance of finding it again. With him went Sir Agravaine of Orkney, Sir Girflet of Corduel and Gareth, Sir Agravaine's brother, now a knight-probationer, whose knighting was planned after the Quest.

The second group was led by Sir Yvain the Valiant. With him went his half-brother, Sir Owein the Bastard, Sir Pellinor and Sir Alynor. Two young esquires of Sir Alynor went with them as helpers.

The third group was led by Arthur himself, accompanied by Merlin. With them went Sir Tristan of Cornwall, with his friend Sir Dinadan and Ivaneth, the page. The latter had been offered this chance to prove himself worthy of becoming an esquire after the Quest.

The only knight who did _not_ volunteer was Sir Erec of Ester-Gales, which surprised everyone, most of all his brother, Sir Geraint.

"What happened to you?" the much-respected knight asked his considerably younger brother. "At any other time you'd have been the most eager to go on such an adventure."

"At any of those times I was not newly wed," replied Sir Erec. "My Lady Enide had waited at my bedside patiently for almost two years while I was lying at death's door, never losing the hope that she could win me back. I am too deeply in her debt to leave her behind, now that I have been healed."

"You hiding behind the skirts of your _wife_ , like a child or a coward?" leered Sir Sagremor, the son of Duke Nabur the Unruly.

An able yet querulous knight, he had been living in Camelot for over four years, but had yet to be invited to the Round Table; a fact that made him even more ill-humoured towards those who had already been granted that privilege. None of which made him particularly well-liked among his fellow knights.

"What has common sense and loyalty towards one's lady have to do with cowardice?" asked Sir Dinadan reasonably. "Or do you think _me_ a coward or a weak knight, too, just because I do not see the benefit of seeking out danger needlessly?"

 _That_ stopped Sir Sagremor for a moment, as all knew that Sir Dinadan was neither weak nor a coward. His deeds, performed in Sir Tristan's company, were remembered in the songs of wandering minstrels, and he was the celebrated champion of many a tournament.

"Still, you do not shy away from the Quest," scowled Sir Sagremor, who had wanted to go but was not chosen.

Sir Dinadan raised an eyebrow. "I am not newly wed with a young wife, either," he pointed out. "Sir Erec has duties towards his bloodline as much as towards his King."

"And I would never demand from him to come with us," said Arthur. "The Lady Enide's claim is older and stronger; and I respect it."

"And _I will_ gladly give up that claim on your behalf, sire," declared Lady Enide. There were tears swimming in her beautiful eyes, but her voice was steady. "I love him too much to allow him to besmirch his honour by letting his King ride into danger without offering his sword as protection," she turned to Sir Erec with a tremulous smile. "Go with my blessing, my heart. I shall return with my father to our castle and wait for you, as I always have."

Sir Erec seemed torn by the choices offered to him… until Count Waldemar nodded encouragingly.

"Go where duty calls you, son," the Count said. "Enide will be well cared for in Laluth until your return. Our lands have not been ravaged by the famine; she will be safe and won't lack anything she might need."

"When are you leaving?" asked Sir Erec.

"At daybreak, with Princess Mithian and her entourage," replied the Count. "King Trevisent sent me a message, asking to join his daughter on her way back. These are dark times, and there is safety in the numbers. Besides, I'm still his subject; nominally, at least."

"And Princess Mithian is always delightful company," added Lady Enide. "Worry not, my beloved; I _will_ be safe. And I shall wait eagerly for your return."

Now that this was settled, the only remaining question was which group Sir Erec should go with. Arthur, however, made a quick decision before another discussion could have begun.

"I'll take him with me," he announced. "Sir Tristan cannot come with us all the way, as he has to escort Princess Iseult to Cornwall, so we'll have the lowest numbers. I cannot go on a quest with just one knight, a page and… well, _Merlin_."

Everyone laughed and agreed, even Merlin, although he knew he alone would have been enough to keep the young King safe. But he also knew that Arthur would need time, both for getting comfortable with the thought of being saved by a warlock and for realising what Merlin actually could do. Besides, the time to announce to the whole court who – and _what_ – exactly Merlin was had not come yet. So it only made sense to take Sir Erec with them.

All necessary choices being made, Arthur released his knights to their preparations. He had his own farewells to make; and he needed to discuss the most urgent matters of state with his Council.

Among them the issue of his father's death.

"We've questioned the guards again," said Sir Bedivere, the constable of Camelot, "but they remain steady that no-one but Mistress Hunith and Dame Guinevere entered the King's chambers."

"I can't imagine Hunith having anything to do with it," replied Arthur. "The only time my father met her, he treated her with respect."

"And Hunith is a healer," Gaius added. "She would never harm anyone entrusted into her care. She is a gentle soul."

"Besides, she wasn't even Uther's subject," said Sir Ector. "She could have no grievance against him; even less so as Uther has made her son Arthur's manservant."

"Neither can I imagine Guinevere to have part in this," continued Arthur. "Admittedly, she _would_ have grievances against my father… even though Tom Blacksmith turned out not to be her natural father, but…"

"No," said Sir Ector grimly. "Her father was Tauren of Cameliand; the man who came to Camelot with the express intention of having Uther murdered."

"True; but Gwen hadn't had any contact with the man before," argued Gaius. "And Tauren was killed by Morgana, not by Uther."

There was a lengthy silence, no-one wanting to remind their young King that his bride had willingly used her blood ties to said sorcerer to make herself a suitable wife for him. That would have been a slippery path; no-one could foretell how Arthur would react.

"Of course, the Lady Morgana would be able to cast an invisibility spell and slip into Uther's chambers unnoticed," said Master Geoffrey slowly.

"I don't doubt that she could do it, and I'd be happy to lay the blame to her feet," replied Arthur grimly, "but I'm afraid we can't. She was last seen leaving the Castle of Fyrien, heading to Cenred's orphaned realm."

"Does she believe Cenred's subjects would take her in with open arms?" Sir Geraint snorted. "After Morgause had their King killed?"

"They might, assuming she comes in the right company," Arthur was very careful _not_ to look in Merlin's direction. "I've been told by a reliable source that Meleagant, the Crown Prince of Caerleon, is also heading to Cenred's castle on the Isle of Gorre – with the apparent intention to take the throne."

"Can he do that?" asked Sir Leon doubtfully. "Cenred's barons were fiercely loyal to him. Would they accept a stranger's claim on his throne?"

"Perchance they would," replied Arthur, "as Cenred was, in fact, the twin brother of Meleagant and the second-born son of King Baudemagus of Caerleon."

Needless to say that Master Geoffrey was the first to make the necessary connections; he was the court genealogist for a reason, after all.

"So Cenred was in fact Prince Melwas?" he asked in surprise.

Arthur nodded. "It seems so, yes."

"Are you absolutely sure about that, sire?" Sir Ector appeared doubtful.

"As sure as one can be about something learned from a truthful third person," replied Arthur somewhat cryptically.

Sir Ector still wasn't convinced. "It would be helpful if you could name your source, sire."

"I don't doubt that, but my source is understandably worried about their own safety and therefore asked to remain unnamed," said Arthur. "I gave my word to respect their wishes, since their news proved invaluable."

That was mostly a lie, of course, but not without a kernel of truth. He couldn't tell his councillors that he learned this from Merlin, of all people, who'd learned it from a dragon. He'd end up walled into the tower of the Mad King, Uther's great-great-grandfather, and Merlin would end up on the stake, without Arthur to protect him.

Magic was still outlawed in Camelot, after all.

"But if Morgana is with Prince Meleagant," began Gaius worriedly, "that means that Meleagant might learn about the Grail, too."

"And since Cenred's realm had also been ravaged by Morgause's fool sorcery, Meleagant might want to lay hand on the Grail himself," Sir Leon continued for him turning to Arthur in concern. "Sire, you and the other knights may have to face competition… perhaps even murderous attempts, should you or any of the others succeed in finding the Grail."

Arthur shrugged. "So, what is new? At least this time we offer several different targets; and I seriously doubt that Meleagant has brought enough men from Caerleon to pursue us all."

"No," Sir Ector agreed. "He'd most likely focus his pursuit on _you_."

"Most likely; but that cannot be helped," replied Arthur. "We need the Grail to save Camelot; and we can't wait for it to find its way to us. We must go and seek for it – we just have to be very careful."

"When are you planning to set off?" asked Sir Ector.

"In two days" time," Arthur answered. "There's no reason for any more delay. We've tarried long enough already."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Prince Meleagant's cavalcade had nearly reached the Isle of Gorre, where the castle of his late brother stood, when the news arrived from Camelot. He hurried to his Queen – who had insisted on a tent of her own for the night – to tell her at once. He found Morgana curled up on her bed, looking strangely subdued.

She spoke before he could deliver his exciting news. "Uther is dead, isn't he?"

"How do you know?" asked the Prince in confusion.

Morgana sat up, shivering. "I felt it. I felt his pain."

Meleagant still couldn't understand her muted reaction.

"I thought Uther's death would be cause for celebration," he said with a frown.

Morgana shrugged listlessly. "Arthur will replace him. There will be no celebration until I take my place upon the throne."

"That might be sooner than you think," Meleagant assured her. "Word has just come that Arthur and his knights set off to seek something called a Grail."

" _The_ Grail," Morgana corrected. "Ask the Dame Cundrie about it. She'll tell you that it's an item of powerful magic that can heal both realms from the ravage the presence of the living dead has done to them."

"In that case," said Meleagant thoughtfully, "perhaps we should attempt to send out our own knights to find this Grail. I'm sure Sir Gheriet would be happy to go."

Morgana shook her head. "To seek for the Grail is a perilous Quest; why put our faithful knights at risk? It will be much easier if we wait until Arthur or one of his knights find the Grail – and then take it from them. _After_ they have returned Camelot to prosperity. I prefer to rule over a rich and flourishing land."

"But will they be able to find it?" asked Meleagant. "And to use it as it is supposed to be used?"

"Don't worry," replied Morgana with a brittle smile. "Arthur has his faults, but he's nothing if not persistent. _And_ he's usually very lucky. I'm counting on that luck… until my hour comes to end it – permanently."

~The End~

Soledad Cartwright@2014-12-31


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